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BITTEE-SWEET, 



A POEM. 



j/ttrHOLLAND, 

AOTBOR OF " THE BAT PATH," " TITCOMB'S LKTTEBS, 



THIRTIETH EDITION. 



NEW YORK: 
SCEIBNEH, ARMSTRONG & CO., 

654 BKOADWAY. 

1873. 






Entereo, &ccor<lin4> W Aelot Coagreds. Ir. the year 1868. bf 

CflAKLES SCKIBNER, 

ia the Clerk's Office of the District Conrt of the United States fcr tb« 
Southera District of New York- 



JUL 2 4 IQ'*^ 



N 



CONTENTS 



-o- 



FAOl 
PlOTURB, ^ 

Persons, ». ••....•. 14 
Prelude^ 18 

FIRST MOVEMENT—COLLOQUIAL. 
The Question Stated and Argued, . . . . 25 



EIRST EPISODE, 
The Question Illustrated by Nature, .... 69 

SECOND MOVEMENT— NARRATIVE. 
The Question Illustrated by Experience, ... 89 

SECOND EPISODE, 
The Question Illustrated by Story, ..... 157 

THIRD MOVEMENT— DRAMATIC. 
The Question Illustrated by the Denouement, . .183 
L'Envoy, 218 



PICTUEE 



Winter's wild birthniglit! In the fretful East 

The uneasy wind moans with its sense of cold, 

And sends its sighs through gloomy mountain gorge, 

Along the valley, up the whitening hill, 

To tease the sighing spmts of the pines. 

And waste in dismal woods their chilly life. 

The sky is dark, and on the huddled leaves — 

The restless, rusthng leaves — sifts do-^Ti its sleet, 

Till the sharp crystals pin them to the earth, 

And they grow still beneath the rising storm. 

The roofless bullock hugs the sheltering stack, 

vYith cringing head and closely gathered feet, 

nd waits with dumb endurance for the mom. 

Deep in a gustv cavern of the barn 

1* 



10 BITTER-SWEET. 

The witless calf stands blatant at his chain ; 
While the brute mother, pent ^^^thin her stall, 
With the wild stress of uistinct goes distraiighb, 
And frets her horns, and bellows tin-oiigh the night. 
The stream runs black ; and the far waterfall 
That sang so sweetly through the summer eves, 
And swelled and swayed to Zephyr's softest breath, 
Leaps with a sullen roar the dark abyss, 
And howls its hoarse responses to the w^ind. 
The mill is still. The distant factory, 
That swarmed yestreen with many-fingered life, 
And bridged the river with a hundred bars 
Of molten light, is dark, and lifts its bulk 
With dim, uncertain angles, to the sky. 

iti ^ * * * na 

Yet lower bows the storm. The leafless trees 
Lash their lithe limbs, and, with majestic voice. 
Call to each other through the deepening gloom ; 
And slender trimks that lean on burly boughs 
Shi'iek vnth the sharp abrasion ; njid the oak^ 



BITTER-SWEET. U 

Mellowed in fibre by unnumbered frosts, 
Yields to the shoulder of the Titan Blast, 
Forsakes its poise, and, with a booming crash, 
Sweeps a fierce passage to the smothered rocks, 
4nd lies a shattered ruin. 

V H* 'p H^ T» •}• t€ 

Other scene: — 
Across the swale, half up the pine-capped hill. 
Stands the old farm-house with its clump of barns — 
The old red farm-house — dim and dmi to-night. 
Save where the ruddy firelights from the hearth 
Flap their bright wings against the window panes, — 
A billowy swarm that beat their slender bars, 
Or seek the night to leave their track of flame 
Upon the sleet, or sit, with shifting feet 
And restless plumes, among the poplar boughs — 
The spectral poplars, standing at the gate. 

And now a man, erect, and tall, and strong, 

WTiose thin white hair, and cheeks of fiuTowed bronze, 



12 BITTER-SWEET. 

And ancient dress, betray the patriarch, 
Stands at the window, listening to the stoi*m 
And as the fire leaps with a wilder flame — 
Moved by the wind — ^it wraps and glorifies 
His stalwart frame, until it flares and glows 
Like the old prophets, in transfigured guise, 
That shape the sunset for cathedral aisles. 
And now it passes, and a sweeter shape 
Stands in its place. O blest maternity! 
Hushed on her bosom, in a light embrace, 
Her baby sleeps, wrapped in its long white robe ; 
And as the flame, with soft, auroral sweeps. 
Illuminates the pair, how like they seem, 
O Virgin Mother ! to thyself and thine ! 
Now Samuel comes with curls of burning gold 
To hearken to the voice of God without : 
" Speak, mighty One ! Thy little seiwant hears !*' 
And Miriam, maiden, from her household cares 
Comes to the T^ondow in her loosened robe, — 
Comes with the blazing timbrels in her hand, — 



BITTER-SWEET. IS 

A.nd, as the noise of winds and waters swells, 
It shapes the song of triumph to her lips : 
*' The horse and he who rode are overthrown !" 
And now a man of noble port and brow, 
And aspect of benignant majesty, 
Assumes the vacant niche, while either side 
Press the fair forms of children, and I hear. 
^'Suffer the little ones to come to me.!*' 



PEBSOI^B. 



FIere dwells the good old fanner, Israel, 

In his ancestral home — a Puritan 

Who reads his Bible daily, loves his God, 

And lives serenely in the faith of Christ. 

For three score years and ten his life has rnn 

Tlu'ough varied scenes of happiness and woe ; 

But, constant through the wide vicissitude, 

He has confessed the giver of his joys, 

And kissed the hand that took them ; and whene'er 

Bereavement h:is oppressed his soul with grief. 

Or sharp misfortune stnng liis heart with pain, 

Ue has bowed down in chiMlike faith, and said, 



BITTER-SWEET. 16 

"Tliy will, O God — thy will be done, not mine'" 

(lis gentle wife, a dozen summers since, 

Passed from liis faithful arms and went to heaven ; 

And her best gift — a maiden sweetly namea — 

His daughter Ruth — orders the ancient house, 

And fills her mother's place beside the bop.rd, 

And cheers his life with songs and industry. 

But who are these who crowd the house to-night — 

A happy throng? Wayfaring pilgiims, who, 

Grateful for shelter, charm the golden hours 

With the sweet jargon of a festival ? 

Who are these fothers ? who these mothers? who 

These pleasant children, rude with health and joy ? 

It is the Puritan's Thanksgiving Eve ; 

A]id gathered home, from fresher homes around, 

Th.e old man's children keep the holiday — 

In dear ISTew England, since the fathers slept — 

The sweetest holiday of all the year. 

John comes with Prudence and her little girls, 



16 BITTER-SWEET. 

And Peter, matched with Patience, brings his boys — 

Fair boys and gMs with good old Scripture names — 

Joseph, Rebekah, Paul, and Samuel ; 

And Grace, young Ruth's companion in the house, 

Till wrested from her last Thanksgiving Day 

By the strong hand of Love, brings home her babe 

And the tall poet David, at whoS3 side 

She went away. And seated in the midst, 

Mary, a foster-daughter of the house, 

Of alien blood — self-aliened many a year — 

Whose chastened face and melancholy eyes 

Bring all the wondering children to her knee, 

Weeps Avith the strange excess of happiness, 

And sighs with joy. 

Wliat recks the driving storm 
Of such a scene as this ? And what reck these 
Of such a storm ? For every heavy gust 
That smites the windows with its cloud of sleet, 
And shakes the sashes with its ghostly hands, 



BITTER-SWEET. 17 



A-Tid rocks the mansion till the chimney's throat 
Through all its sooiy caverns shrieks and howls, 
They give full bursts of careless merriment, 
Or songs that send it baffled on its way. 



t 



PRELUDE. 



DoL'BT takes to wings on such a night as this ; 
And while the traveller liiigs liis fluttering cloak, 
And -Staggers o'er the weary waste alone, 
Beneath a pitiless heaven, they flap his face, 
And wheel above, or hnnt his fainting soul. 
As, ^vith relentless greed, a vulture throng, 
With their lank shadows mock the glazing eyes 
Of the last camel of the caravan. 
Arid Faith takes foiTns and -svings on such a night. 
V^Hiere love burns brightly at the household hearth, 
And from the altar of each peaceful heart 
Ascends the fragrant incense of its thanks. 
And every pulse with sympathetic throb 
Tells the true rhvllmi of trustfulest content, 



BITTEK-S WEET. 19 

Thoy flutter in and out, and touch to smiles 
Tiie sleeping lips of infancy ; and fan 
Tlie blush that hghts the modest maiden's cheeks; 
And toss the Iock« of children at their play. 

Silence is vocal if we listen well ; 

And Life and Being sing in dullest ears 

From morn to night, from night to morn again, 

With fine articulations ; but when God 

Disturbs the soul witii terror, or inspires 

With a great joy, the words of Doubt and Faith 

Sound quick and sharp like drops on forest leaves; 

And we look up to where the pleasant sky 

Kisses the thunder-caps, and drink the song. 

^ Song o{ IDouM 

The day is quenched, and the sun is fled ; 

God has forgotten the world ! 
Tlie moon is gone, and the stars are dead 

God has foro^otten the world f 



2C BITTER-SWEET. 

Evil has won in the horrid feud 

Of ages with The Thi'one ; 
Evil stands on the neck of Good, 

And rules the world alone. 

There is no good ; there is no God ; 

And Faith is a heartless cheat 
Who bares the back for the Devil's rod, 

And scatters thorns for the feet. 

What are prayers in the lips of death, 
Filling and chilling witli haU ? 

What are prayers but wasted breath 
Beaten back by the gale ? 

The day is quenched, and the sun is fled ; 

God has forgotten the world I 
The moon is gone and the stars are dead j 

God has forgotten the world ! 



BITTER-SWEET. 21 



a ^ons Hi jFaitt 

Day will return with a fresher boon ; 

God will remember the world ! 
Night will come with a newer moon j 

God will remember the world I 

Evil is only the slave of Good ; 

Sorrow the servant of Joy ; 
And the soul is mad that refuses food 

Of the meanest in God's employ. 

The fountain of joy is fed by tears, 
And love is lit by the breath of sighs ; 

The deepest griefs and the wildest fears 
Have holiest ministries. 

Strong gi-ows the oak in the sweeping storm 
Safely the flower sleeps under the snow ; 



22 BITTER-SWEET. 

And the farmer's hearth is never warm 
Till the cold v/ind starts to blow. 

Day will return with a fresher boon j 
God will remember the world I 

Night will come with a newer moon \ 
God will remember the world I 



FIBGT MOYEMEI^T 



^"^OI-LOQUIAL 



FIEST MOVEME¥'i\ 



LOCALITY — The square room of a Nmo Engla/nd farm-kouse. 

PRESENT — ISKAEL, head of the family ; John, Petee, David, PATraNOay 
Pbudenoe, Gbace, Maky, Euth, and Childken. 



THE QUESTION STATED AND AKGUED. 
ISKA.EL. 

Ruth, touch the cradle Boys, you must be still I 
The baby cannot sleep in such a noise. 
May, Grace, stir not ; she'll soothe him soon enoughj 
And tell him more sweet stuff in half an hour 
Than you can dream, in dreaming half a year 



26 B I T T E R - S W E E T . 

RUTH. 

[Kneeling and rocking the cradU 

What IS the little one thinking about ? 
Very wonderM things, no doubt. 
Unwritten history I 
XJnfathomed mystery ! 
Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, 
And chuckles and crows, and nods and winks, 
As if his head were as full of kinks 
And curious riddles as any sphinx ! 
Warped by colic, and wet by tears, 
Punctured by puis, and tortured by fears, 
Our little nephew will lose two years ; 
And he'll never know 
Where the summers go ; — 
He need not laugh, for he'll find it bo ! 



Wlio can tell what a baby thinks ? 
Who can follow th« gossamer links 



BITTER-SWEET. 27 

By which the maniiLkhi feels his way 
Out from the sliore of the great unknown. 
Blind, and wailing, and alone, 

Into the light of day ? — 
Out from the shore of the unkno^Ti sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony, — 
Of the unkno^yn sea that reels and rolls, 
Specked with the barks of little souls- 
Barks that were launched on the other side, 
And slipped from Heaven on an ebbing tide I 

What does he think of his mother's eyes ? 
What does he think of his mother's hair ? 

What of the cradle-roof that flies 
Forward and backward through the air ? 

What does he think of his mother's breast- 
Bare and beautifiil, smooth and white, 
Seeking it ever wdth fresh deliglit— 

Cup of his life and couch of his rest ? 
What does he think when her quick embracs 
i^resses his hand and buries his face 



28 BITTER-SWEET. 

Deep where tlie heart-throbs sink and swell 
With a tenderness she can never tell, 
Though she murmur the words 
Of all the birds — 
Words she has learned to murmur well ? 
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep ! 
I can see the shadow creep 
Over his eyes, in soft eclipse, 
Over his brow, and over his lips, 
Out to his little finger-tips ! 
Softly sinking, down he goes ! 
Down he goes ! Down he goes ! 

[Eising and carefully retreating to h&r seat. 

See! He is hushed in sweet repos ! 

DAVID. 

[ Yawning. 

Behold a miracle ! Music transformed 
To morpnine, and the drowsy god invoked 
(iy the poor prattle of a maiden's tongue ! 
A moment more, and we should all have gone 



B I T T E E - S W E E T . 29 

Down into dreamland Avitli the babe ! Ah, weh » 
There is no end of wonders. 

EUTH. 

None, indeed ! 
When lazy poets who have gorged themselves, 
And cannot keep awake, make the attempt 
To shift the burden of their drowsiness, 
And charge a girl with what they owe to greed. 

DAVID. 

At your old tricks again ! No sleep induced 
By song of yours, or any other bird's. 
Can linger long when you begin to talk. 
Grace, box your sister's ears for me, and save 
The trouble of my rising. 

BUTH. 

[Advancing and kneeling by the side of Qrac4 
Sister mine. 
Ko'w give the proof of your obedience 



30 BITTER-SWEET. 

To your imperious lord ! Strike, if you dare ! 
I'll wake your baby if you lift your hand. 
Ua! king; ha! poet; who is master now- 
Baby or husband ? Pr'ythee, tell me that. 
Were I a man, — ^thank Heaven I am not ! — 
And had a wife who cared not for my will 
More than your wife for yours, I'd hang myself 
Or wear an apron. See ! she kisses me I 

DAVID. 

And answers to my will, though well she knows 
I'll spare to her so terrible a task, 
And take the awful burden on myself; 
Which I win do, in future, if she please I 

BUTH. 

Now have yoti conquered ! Look I I am your slave. 
Denounce me, scourge me, anything but kiss ; 
For life is sweet, and I alone am left 
To comfort an old man. 



Bitter-sweet. 3] 

ISRAEL. 

Ruth, that will do I 
Kemember I'm a Justice of the Peace, 
And bide no quarrels ; and if you and David 
Persist hi strife, I'll place you under bonds 
For good behavior, or condemn you both 
To solitary durance for the night. 

RUTH. 

Father, you fail to understand the case. 
And do me wrong. David has threatened me 
With an assault that proves intent to kill ; 
4nd here's my sister Grace, his wedded wife, 
Who'll take her oath, that just a year ago 
He entered into bonds to keep the peace 
Toward me and womankind. 



DAVID. 



I'm quite asleep. 



32 BITTER-SWEET. 

ISRAEL. 
We'll all agree, then, to pronounce it quits. 

RXTTH. 

Till he awake again, of course. T trust 
I have sufficient gallantry to grant 
A nap between encounters, to a foe 
With odds against him. 

ISRAEL. 

Peace, niy daughter, peace ! 
You've had your full revenge, and we have had 
Enough of laughter since the day began. 
We must not squander all these precious hours 
In jest and merriment ; for when the sun 
Shall rise to-morrow, we shall separate, 
Not knowing we shali ever meet again. 
Meetings like this are rare this side of Heaven, 
And seem to me the best mementoes lefl 
Of Eden's hours. 



BITTER-SWEET. 3li 



GRACE. 



Most certainly the best, 
And quite the rarest, but, unluckily. 
The weakest, as Ave know ; for sin and pain 
And evils multiform, that swarm the earth, 
And poison all our joys and all our hearts, 
Remind us most of Eden's forfeit bliss. 



DAVID 



Forfeit through woman. 



GRACE. 

Forfeit through her power ; — 
A power not lost, as most men know, I think. 
Beyond the knowledge of their trustful wives. 

MARY. 

[Rising, and walking hurriedly tc the window. 

Tis a wild night A\'ithout. 



84 BITTER-SWEET. 



KUTH. 



And getting wild 
Within. Now Grace, I — all of us — protest 
Against a scene to-night. Look! You have driven 
One to the window blushing, and your lord, 
With lowering brow, is making stern essay 
To stare the fire-dogs out of countenance. 
These honest brothers, with their honest wives, 
Grow glum and solemn, too, as if they feared 
At the next gust to see the windows burst, 
Or a riven poplar crashing through the roof. 
And think of me ! — a simple-hearted maid 
Who learned from Cowper only yesterday 
(Or a schoolmaster, with a handsome face, 
And a strange passion for the text), the fact. 
That w^edded bliss alone survives the fall. 
I'm shocked ; I'm frightened ; and I'll never wed 
Unless I — change my mind ! 



BITTER-SWEET. 35 

ISRAEL. 

And I consent. 

DAVID, 

And the schoolmaster with the handsome fac« 
Propose. 

RUTH. 

Your pardon, father, for the jest I 
But I have never patience with the ills 
That make intrusion on my happy hours. 
I know the world is full of evil things. 
And shudder with the consciousness. I know 
That care has iron cro^vns for many brows; 
That Calvaries are everywhere, whereon 
Vh'tue is crucified, and nails and spears 
Draw guiltless blood ; that sorrow sits and drinks 
At sweetest hearts, till all their life is dry ; 
That gentle spirits on the rack of pain 



36 BITTER-SWEET. 

Gro\\ faint or fierce, and pray and curse by turns ; 

Tliat Hell's temptations, clad in Heavenly guise 

And armed with might, lie evei'more in wait 

Along life's path, giving assault to all — 

Fatal to most ; that Death stalks through the earto, 

Choosing his victims, sparmg none at last; 

That in each shadow of a pleasant tree 

A grief sits sadly sobbing to its leaves ; 

And that beside each fearful soul there walks 

The dim, gaunt phantom of uncertamty. 

Bidding it look before, where none may see, 

And all must go ; but I forget it all — 

I thrust it fi'om me always when 1 may ; 

Else I should faint with fear, or drown myself 

In pity. God forgive me ! but I've thought 

A thousand times that if I had His power. 

Or He my love, we'd have a different world 

From this we live in. 



BITTEK-SWEET. 37 

ISRAEL. 

Those are sinful thoughts, 
My daughter, and too surely hidicate 
A wilful soul, unreconciled to God. 

EUTH. 

So you have told me often. You have said 
That God is just, and I have looked around 
To seek the pi-oof hi Iiuman lot, in vain. 
The rain fills kindly on the just man's fields, 
But on the unjust man's more kindly still ; 
And I have never known the winter's blast. 
Or the quick lightning, or tlie pestilence, 
Make nice discriminations when let slip 
From God's right hand, 

ISRAEL. 

'Tis a great mystery ; 
Yet God is just, and, — blessed be His name ' 



3S BITTER-SWEET. 

Is loving too. I know that I am weak, 

Aud that the pathway of His Providence 

Is on the hills where I may never climb. 

Therefore my reason yields her hand to Faith, 

And follows meekly where the angel leads. 

I see the rich man have his portion here, 

And Lazarus, in glorified repose. 

Sleep like a jewel on the breast of Faith 

In Heaven's broad light. I see that whom God loves 

He chastens sorely, but I ask not why. 

I only know that God is just and good : 

All else is mystery. Why evil lives 

Within His universe, I may not know. 

I know it lives, and taints the vital air ; 

And that in ways inscrutable to me — 

Yet compromising not his soundless love 

And boundless power — it lives against His will. 



BITTER-SWEET. 89 



EUTH. 



I am not satisfied. If evil live 

Against God's will, evil is king of all, 

And they do well who worship Lucifer, 

I am not satisfied. My reason spurns 

Such prostitution to absurdities. 

I know that you are happy ; but I shrink 

From your blind faith with loathing and with fear. 

And feel that I must win it, if I win, 

With the surrender, not of will alone, 

But of the noblest faculty that God 

Has crowned me with. 



is; 

O blind and stubborn child I 
My light, my joy, my burden and my grief! 
How would I lead you to the wells of peace, 
And see you dip your fevered palms and drink ! 
Gladly to purchase this would I lay down 



40 BITTER-SWEET. 

The precious remnant of my life, and sleep, 
Wrapped iu the faith you spurn, till the archangel 
Sounds the last trump. But God^s good will be done ! 
I leave you with Him. 

RUTH. 

Father, talk not thus ! 
Oh, do not blame me ! I would do it all, 
If but to bless you with a single joy; 
But I am helpless. 

ISRAEL. 

God will help you, Ruth. 

RUTH. 

To quench my reason ? Can I ask the boon ? 
My lips would blister with the blasphemy, 
cannot take your faith ; and that is why 
I Avould forcret that I am in a world 



BITTEK-SWEET. 4\ 

Where evii lives, and why I guard my joys 
With such a jealous care. 



DAVID. 

There, Ruth, sit down I 
^is the old question, with the old reply. 
You fly along the path, with bleeding feet, 
Where many feet have flown and bled before ; 
And he who seeks to guide you to the goal. 
Has (let me say it, father,) stopped far short, 
And taken refuge at a wayside inn, 
Whose haunted halls and mazy passages 
Receive no light, save through the riddled roof, 
Pierced thick by pilgrim staves, that Faith may lie 
Upon its back, and only gaze on Heaven. 
I would not banish evil if I could ; 
Nor would I be so deep in love with joy 
As to seek for it in forgetfulness, 
Through faith or fear. 



A2 BITTER-SWEET. 

EUTH. 

Teach me the better way, 
An (3 every expiration from ray lips 
Shall be a grateful blessing on your head; 
And in the coining world I'll seek the side 
Of no more gracious angel than the man 
Who gives me brotherhood by leading me 
Home with himself to heaven, 

ISRAEL. 

My son, 
Be careful of your words ! 'Tis no light thing 
To take the guidance of a straying soul. 

DAVID. 

I mark the burden well, and love it, too. 
Because I lo\e the girl and love her lord, 
And seek to vindicate His love to her 
And waken hers for Him. Be this my plea: 



BITTER-SWEET. 43 

Gcni is almighty — all-benevolent; 
And naught exists save by His loving wilL 
Evil, or what we reckon such, exists, 
And not against His will; else the Supreme 
Is subject, and we have in place of God 
A phantom nothing, with a phantom name. 
Therefore I care not whether He ordain 
That evil live, or whether He permit ; 
Therefore I ask not why, in either case, 
As if Pie meant to curse me, but I ask 
What He would have this evil do for me? 
What is its mission? what its ministry? 
What golden fruit lies hidden in its husk? 
How shall it nurse my virtue, nerve my will, 
Chasten my passions, purify my love. 
And make me in some goodly sense like Him 
Who bore the cross of evil while He lived, 
Who hung and bled upon it when He died, 
And now, in glory, wears the victor's crown? 



44 BITTER-SWEET. 

ISRAEL. 

If evil, then, have privilege and part 

In the economy of holiness, 

Why came the Christ to save us from its power 

And bring us restoration of the blii^ 

Lost in the lapse of Eden ? 

DAVID. 

And would you 
Or Ruth have restoration of that bliss, 
And welcome transplantation to the state 
Associate mth it? 

RUTH. 

Would I? Would I not! 
Oh, I have dreamed of it a thousand times, 
Sleeping and waking, since the torch of thought 
Flashed into flame at Revelation's touch, 
And filled my spirit with its quenchless fire. 



BITTER-SWEET. 45 

M'jst envious dreams of innocence and joy 

Have haunted me, — dreams that were born in sin, 

Yet swathed in stainless snow. I've dreamed, and 

dreamed, 
Of wondrous trees, cro^vned with perennial green, 
Whose soft still shadows gleamed with golden lamps 
Of pensile fruitage, or were flushed with life 
Radifint and timeful when broad flocks of birds 
Swept in and out like sheets of livhig flame. 
I've dreamed of aisles tufted with velvet grass, 
And bordered with the strange intelligence 
Of myriad loving eyes among the flowers. 
That watched me with a curious, calm delight, 
As rows of wayside cherubim may ^vatch 
A new soul, walking into Paradise. 
I've dreamed of sunsets when the sun supine r, 
Lay rocking on the ocean like a god, "^ 

And threw his weary arms far up the sky, 
And with vermillion-tinted fingers toyed 
With the long trecses of the evening star. 



4:6 BITTER-SWEET. 

I've dreamed of dreams more beautiful than all — 

Dreams that were music, perfume, vision, bliss, — 

Blent and sublimed, till I have stood enwi'apped 

In the quick essence of an atmosphere 

That made me tremble to unclose my eyes 

Lest I should look on God. And I have dreamed 

Of sinless men and maids, mated in heaven. 

Ere yet their souls had sought for beauteous forms 

To give them human sense and residence, 

Moving through all this realm of choice delights 

For ever and for aye ; with hands and hearts 

Immaculate as light; without a thought 

Of evil, and without a name for fear. 

Oh, when I wake from happy dreams like these, 

To the old consciousness that I must die, 

To the old presence of a guilty heart, 

To the old fear that haunts me night and day, 

AVhy should I not dej^lore the graceless fall 

That makes me what I am, and shuts me out 

From a condition and society 



BITTER-SWEET. 47 

As much above a sinful maiden's dreams 
4s Eden blest sm-passes Eden cm-st? 

DAVID. 

So you would be another Eve, and so — 
Fall with the first temptation, like herself! 
God seeks for virtue; you for innocence. 
You'U find it in the cradle — ^nowhere else — 
Save in your dreams, among the grown up babes 
That dwelt in Eden — powerless, pulpy souls 
That showed a dimple for each touch of sin, 
God seeks for virtue, and, that it may live, 
It must resist, and that which it resists 
Must live. Believe me, God has other thought 
Than restoration of our fallen race 
To its primeval innocence and bliss. 
If Jesus Christ — as we are taught — was slain 
From the foundation of the world, it was 
JJecause our evil lived in essence then — 
Coeval mth the great, mysterious fact. 



4b BITTER-SWEET. 

And He was slain that we mioht be transformed,— 

Not into Adam's sweet similitude — 

Bat the more glorious image of Himself,^ 

A resolution of our destiny 

As high transcending Eden's life and lot 

As he surpasses Eden's fallen lord. 

EUTII. 

Fou're very bold, my brother, very bold. 
Did I not know you for ry^ earnest man, 
WTien sacred theme, ^jve you to utterance, 
I'd chide you for those most irreverent words 
Which make essential to the Christian scheme 
That which the scheme was made to kill, or cured. 

Y'et they do save some very awkward words, 
That limp to make apology for God, 
And, while they justify Him, half confess 
The adverse verdict of appearances. 



BITTER-SAVEET. 49 

r am asliamed that in this Christian age 

The pious throng still hug the fallacy 

That this dear world of ours was not ordained 

The theatre of e\'il; for no law 

Declared of God from all eternity 

Can live a moment save by lease of pain. 

Law cannot live, e'en in God's inniost thought, 

Save by the side of evil. What were law 

But a weak jest without its penaltv ? 

Ncvei a law was born that did not fly 

Forth from the bosom of Omnipotence 

Matched, wing-and-wing, with evil and with good, 

Avenger and re warder — both of God. 

EUTH. 

I face your thought and give it audience; 
But I cannot embrace it till it come 
With some of truth's credentials in its hands— 
The fruits of gracious ministries. 



50 BITTER-SWEET, 

DAVID. 

Does he 
Who, driven to labor by the threat'ning weeds, 
And forced to give his acres light and air 
And traps for dew and reservoirs for rain, 
Till, in the smoky light of harvest time, 
The ragged husks reveal the golden corn. 
Ask truth's credentials of the weeds? Does he 
Who prunes the orchard boughs, or tills the field, 
Or fells the forests, or pursues their prey, 
Until the gnarly muscles of his limbs 
And the free blood that thrills in all his veins 
Betray the health that toil alone secures. 
Ask truth's credentials at the hand of toil? 
Do you ask truth's credentials of the storm, 
Which, while we entertain communion here, 
3Iakes better music for our huddling hearts 
Than choirs of stars can sing in fairest nights? 
Yet weeds are evils — evils toil and storm. 



BITTER-SWEET. 51 

We may suspect the fair, smooth face of good ; 

But evil, that assails us undisguised, 

Bears evermore God's warrant in its hands. 

ISRAEL. 

I fear these silver sophistries of yours. 

If my poor judgment gives them honest weight, 

Far less than thirty will betray your Lord. 

You call that evil which is good, and good 

That which is evil. You apologize 

For that which God must hate, and justify 

The life and perpetuity of that 

Which seta itself against His holiness. 

And sends its discords through the universe 

DAVID. 

I sorrrow if I shock you, for I seek 
To comfort and inspire. I see around 
A silent company of doubtful soula; 
But 1 may challenge any one of them 



52 BITTER-SWEET. 

To quote the meanest blessing of its life, 

And prove that evil did not make tlie gift, 

Oi beai it from the giver to its hands. 

The great salvation wrought by Jesus Christ — 

That sank an Adam to reveal a God — 

Had never come, but at the call of sin. 

No risen Lord could eat the feast of love 

Here on the earth, or yonder in the sky, 

Had He not lain within the sepulchre. 

'Tis not the lightly laden heart of man 

That loves the best the hand that blesses all ; 

But that which, groaning with its weight of sin, 

Meets with the mercy that forgiveth much. 

God never fails in an experiment, 

Nor tries experiment upon a race 

But to educe its highest style of life, 

And sublimate its issues. Thus to me 

Evil is not a mystery, but a means 

Selected from the infinite resource 

To make the most of me. 



BITTER-SWEET. 53 

EUTH. 

Thank God for light I 
These truths are slowly dawning on my soul, 
And take position in the Urmament 
That spans my thought, like stars that know their 

place. 
Dear Lord ! what visions crowd before my eyes — 
Visions drawn forth from memory's mysteries 
By the sweet shining of these holy lights ! 
I see a girl, once lightest in the dance. 
And maddest with the gayety of life, 
Grow pale and pulseless, wasting day by day. 
While death lies idly dreaming in her breast, 
Blighting her breath, and poisoning her blood. 
I see her frantic with a fearful thought 
That haunts and horrifies her shrinkmg soul. 
And bursts in sighs and sobs and feverish prayers; 
And now, at last, the awfid struggle ends. 
A sweet smile sits upon her angel face, 



54 BITTER-SWEET, 

And [.eace, with downy bosom, nestles close 

Where her worn heart throbs faintly; closer still 

As the death shadows gather; closer still, 

As, on wliite wings, the outward-going soul 

Flies to a home it never would have sought, 

Had a great evil failed to point the way. 

I see a youth whom God has crowned with power 

And cursed with poverty. With bravest heart 

He struggles with his lot, through toilsome years, — 

Kept to his task by daily want of bread. 

And kept to virtue by his daily task, — 

Till, gaining manhood in the manly strife, — 

The fire that fills him smitten from a flint — 

The strength that arms him wi*ested from a fiend — 

He stands, at last, a master of himself, 

And, in that grace, a master of his kind. 

DAVID. 

Familiar visions these, but ever full 
Of inspiration and significance. 



BITTER-SWEET. 55 

Now that your eyes are opened and you see, 
Your heart should take swift cognizance, and feel. 
How do these visions move you i* 

EUTH. 

Like the hand 
Of a strong angel on my shoulder laid. 
Touching the secret of the spirit's wings. 
My heart grows brave. I'm ready now to work-^ 
To work with God, and suffer with His Christ; 
Adopt His measures, and abide His means. 
If, in the law that spans the universe 
(The law its maker may not disobey). 
Virtue may only grow from innocence 
Through a great struggle with opposing ill; 
If I must win my way to perfectness 
In the sad path of suffering, like Him 
TJie over-flowing river of whose life 
Touches the flood-mark of humanity 
Ori the white pillars of the heavenly throne, 



56 BITTER-SWEET. 

Then welcome evil ! Welcome sickness, toil, 
Sorrow and pain, the fear and fact of deatli ! 

And welcome sin? 

BUTH. 

Ah, David ! welcome sin ? 

DAYID. 

The fact of sin — so much ; — it must needs be 

Offences come; if woe to him by whom, 

Then with good reason ; but the fact of sin 

Unlocked the door to highest destiny. 

That Christ might enter in and lead the way. 

God loves not sin, nor I ; but in the throng 

Of evils that assail us, there are none 

That yield their strength to Virtue's struggling ami 

"With such munificent reward of power 

As great temptations. We may win by toil 



BITTER-SWEET. 67 

Endurance ; saintly fortitude by ])ain ; 

By sickness, patience ; faith and trust by fear ; 

But the great stimulus that spurs to life, 

And crowds to generous development 

Each chastened power and passion of the soul. 

Is the temptation of the soul to sin. 

Resisted, and re-conquered, evermore, 

EUTH. 

I am content ; and now that I have caught 

Bright glimpses of the outlines of your scheme. 

As of a landscape, graded to the sky, 

And seen through trees while passing, I desire 

No vision further till I make survey 

In some good time when I may come alone, 

And drink its beauty and its blessedness. 

I've been forgetful in my earnestness. 

And wearied every one with talk. These boys 

Are restive grown, or nodding in their chairs, 

And older heads are set, as if for sleep. 

3* 



58 BITTER-SWEET. 

[ beg their pardon for my theft of time, 
And will offend no more. 

DAVID. 

Ruth, is it right 
To leave a brother in such plight as this — 
Either to imitate your courtesy, 
Or by your act to be adjudged a boor ? 

EtJTH. 

Heaven grant you never note a sin of mine 
Save of your own construction! 

ISRAEL. 

Let it pass! 
I see the speU of thoughtfulness is gone, 
Or going swiftly. I wiU not complain; 
But ere these lads are fastened to their games, 
And thoughts arise discordant with our theme, 
Let us with gratitude approach the throne 



BITTER-SWEET. 69 

And worship God. I wish once more to lead 
Your hearts in prayer, and follow with ray own 
The leading of your song of thankfulness. 
Then will I lease and leave you for the night 
To such divertiseraent as suits the time, 
And meets your humor. 

[They all arise and ilie old man prays, 

ETJTH. 

[After a pause, 
David, let us see 
Whether your memory prove as true as mine. 
Do you recall the promise made by you 
This night one year ago,— to write a hymn 
For this occasion? 

DAVID. 

I recall, and keep. 
Here are the copies, written fairly out. 
Here,— father, Mary, Ruth, and all the rest ; 
There's one for each. JSTow what shall be the tune? 



60 BITTER-SWEET. 

ISRAEL. 

riie old One Hundred tli — noblest tune of tunes ! 
Old tunes are precious to me as old paths 
In which I wandered when a happy boy. 
In truth, they are the old paths of my soul, 
Oft trod, well worn, familiar, up to God. 



[In which all unite to sing. 

For Summer's bloom and Autumn's blight, 
For bending wheat and blasted maize, 

For health and sickness, Lord of light, 
And Lord of darkness, hear our praise I 

We trace to Tliee our joys and woes, — 
To Thee of causes still the cause, — 

We thank Thee that Thy hand bestows; 
We bless Thee that Thy love withdraws. 



BITTER-SWEET. Cl 

We bring no sorrows to Thy tlirone ; 

We come to Thee with no complaint • 
In Providence Thy will is done, 

And that is sacred to the saint. 

Here on this blest Thanksgiving Night ; 

We raise to Thee our grateful voice ; 
For what Thou doest, Lord, is right; 

And thus believing, we rejoice. 

GUACE. 

A good old tune, indeed, and strongly sung ; 
But, in my mind, the man who wrote the hymn 
Had seemed more modest, had he paused awhile, 
Ere by a trick he furnished other tongues 
With words he only has the heart to sing. 

DAVID. 

Oh, Gracel Dear Grace 1 



^2 BITTER-SWEET. 

BUXn. 

You may well cry for grace, 
If that's the company you have to keep. 

GEACE. 

I thougnt you convert to his sophistry. 
It makes no difference to him, you know, 
Whether I plague or please. 

EUTH. 

It does to you. 

ISRAEL. 

There, children ! No more bitter words like those ! 

I do not understand them; they awake 

A sad uneasiness within my heart. 

I found but Christian meaning in the hymn ; 

Aye, I could say ameii to every hue, 

As to the breathings of my o^vn poor prayer. 

But let us talk no more. I'll to my bed. 

Good night, my children ! Happy thoughts be youri 

Till sleep arrive — then hapj^y dreams till dawn ! 



BITTER-SWEET. 63 

ALL. 

Father, good night ! 

[Israel retires. 

EUTH. 

There, little boys and girls— 
Off to the kitchen ! IS'ow there's fiin for you. 
Play blind-man's-buff until you break your heads ; 
And then sit down beside the roaring fire, 
And with wild stories scare yourselves to death. 
We'll all be out there, by-and-by. Meanwhile, 
I'll try the cellar ; and if David, here. 
Will promise good behavior, he shall be 
My candle-bearer, basket-bearer, and — 
But no ! The pitcher I will bear myself. 
I'll never trust a pitcher to a man 
Under this house, and — seventy years of age. 

[Tlie children rush out of the room with a shout, which wake 
the baby. 
That noisy little youngster on the floor 
Slept through theology, but wakes with mirth — 



f^: B I T T E 11 - S ^V E E T . 

Precocious little creature ! He must go 

Up to his chamber. Come, Grace, take him off,-— 

Biisket and all. Mary will lend a hand. 

And keep you company until he sleeps. 

[Grace and Mary remove the cradle to the chamber, and David 
and Ruth retire to the cellar. 

JOHN. 

[Rising and yawning. 
Isn't she the strangest girl you ever saw ? 

PRUDENCE. 

Queer, rather, I should say. Grace, now, is strange. 

I think she treats her husband shamefully. 

I can't imagine what possesses her. 

Thus to toss taunts at him with every word. 

If in his doctrines there be truth enough, 

He'll be a saint. 

PATIEXCE. 

If he live long enough. 



BITTER-SWEET. 65 

JOHN. 

Well, now I tell you, such wild men as he, — 
Men who have crazy crotchets in their lieads,— 
Can't make a woman happy. Don't you see ? 
He isn't settled. He has wandered off 
From the old landmarks, and has lost himself. 
I may judge wrongly ; but if truth were told 
There'd be excuse for Grace, I warrant ye. 
Grace is a right good girl, or was, before 
She married David. 

PATIENCE. 

Everybody says 
He makes provision for his family, 
Like a good husband. 

PETEB. 

We can hardly tell. 
When men get loose in their theology 
The screws are started up in everything 



66 BITTER-SWEET. 

Of course, I don't apologize for Grace. 
I tliiDk slie might have done more prudently 
Than introduce her troubles "here to night, 
But, after all, we do not know the cause 
That stirs her fretfulness. 

Well, let it go ! 
What does the evening's talk amount to ? Who 
Is wiser for the wisdom of the hour ? 
The good old paths are good enough for me. 
The fathers walked to heaven in them, and we, 
By following meekly where they trod, may reach 
The home they found. There will be mysteries ; 
Let those who like, bother their heads with them, 
If Ruth and David seek to fathom all, 
I wish them patience in their bootless quest. 
For one, I'm glad the ir:V-y talk is done, 
And we, alone. 

PATIENCE. 

And I. 



BITTER-SWEET. 67 



JOHN. 



I, too. 

PRUDENCE. 

And I. 



FIEST EPISODE 



LOCALITY— 2^6 Cellar Stairs and ths Cellar, 



PRESENT— David and Ruth. 



THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY NATURE. 

KUTH. 

I/OOK where you step, or you'll stumble ! 
Care for your coat, or you'll crock it ! 

Down with your cro^\Ti, man ! Be humble I 
Put your head into your pocket, 
Else Bomothing or other will knock it. 

Don t hit that jar of cucumbers 



70 BITTER-SWEET. 

Standing on the broad stair ! 
They have not waked from their slumbers 
Since they stood there. 

DAVID. 

Yet they have lived in a constant jar I 
What remarkable sleepers they are I 

EUTH. 

Turn to the left — shun the wall — 
One step more — that is all ! 
Now we are safe on the ground 
I wiU show you around. 

Sixteen barrels of cider 
Ripening all in a row ! 
Open the vent-channels wider ! 
See the froth, drifted like snow, 



Ji 1 T T E R - S W E E T . 71 

Blown by the tempest below I 

Those delectable juices 

Flowed through the sinuous sluices 

Of sweet springs under the orchard ; 

Climbed into fountains that chained them ; 

Dripped into cups that retained them, 

And swelled till they dropped, and we gained them. 

Then they were gathered and tortured 

By passage from hopper to vat. 

And fell — every apple crushed flat. 

Ah ! how the bees gathered round them, 

And how delicious they found them ! 

Oat-straw, as fragrant as clover, 

Was platted, and smoothly turned over. 

Weaving a neatly-ribbed basket ; 

And, as they built up the casket. 

In went the pulp by the scoop-full, 

Till the juice flowed by the stoup-fulI,^» 

Filling the half of a puncheon 

While the men swallowed their luncheon. 



72 B I T T E II - S W E E T . 

Pure grew the stream with the stresf^ 

Of the lever and screw^ 
Till the last drops from the press 

Were as bright as the dew. 
There were these juices spilled ; 
There were these barrels filled ; 
Sixteen barrels of cider — 
Ripening all in a row ! 
Open the vent-channels wdder ! 
See the fi-oth, drifted like snow, 
Blown by the tempest below I 

DAVID. 

Hearts, like apples, are hard and sour, 
Till crushed by Pain's resistless power ; 
And yield their juices rich and bland 
To none but Sorrow's heavy hand. 
I'he purest streams of human love 
Flow naturally never, 



BITTER-SWEET. 5-3 



But gush by pressure from above, 
With God's hand on the lever. 
The first are turbidest and meanest ; 
The last are sweetest and serenest. 



KUTH. 

Sermon quite short for the text ! 

What shall we hit upon next ? 

Lift up the lid of that cask ; 
See if the brine be abundant ; 

Easy for me were the task 
To make it redundant 

With tears for my beautiiid Zephyr- 
Pet of the pasture and stall — • 

V\niitest and comeliest heifer, 
Gentlest of all ! 

Oh, it seemed cruel to slay her I 
But they insulted my prayer 
Foi' her careless and innocent life. 



74 B I T T E K • S \V E E T . 

And the creature was brought to the knife 
With gratitude in her eye ; 
For they patted her back, and chafed her head, 
And coaxed her with softest words, as they led 

Her up to the ring to die. 
Do you blame me for cr\ing 
When my Zephyr was dying ? 
I shut my room and my ears, 
And opened my heart and my tears, 
And wept for the half of a day ; 

And I could not go 

To the rooms below 
Till the butcher went away. 

DAVID. 

Life evermore is fed by death, 

In earth and sea and sky; 
And, that a rose may breathe its breatn, 
Something must die. 



BITTER-SWEET. 75 



Earth is a sepulchre of flowers, 

Whose vitalizmg mould 
Through boundless transmutation towers, 
In green and gold. 

The oak tree, struggling with the blast, 

Devours its father tree, 
And sheds its leaves and drops its mast, 
That more may be. 

The falcon preys upon the finch, 

The finch upon the fly 
And nought will loose the hunger-pinch 
But death's wild cry. 

The milk-haired heifer's life must pass 

That it may fill your own. 
As passed the sweet life of the grass 
She fed upon. 



76 BITTER-SWEET. 

Tlie power enslaved by yonder cask 

•Shall many burdens bear; 
Shall nerve the toiler at his task, 
The soul at prayer. 

From lowly woe springs lordly joy; 

From humbler good diviner; 
The greater life must aye destroy 
And drink the minor. 

From hand to hand life's cup is passed 

Up Being's piled gradation, 
Till men to angels yield at last 
The rich collation. 

BUTH. 

Well, we are done with the brute; 
Now let us look at the fruity — 
Every barrel, I'm told, 
From grafts half a dozen years old. 



BITTER-SWEET. 7? 

That is a barrel of russets; 
But we can hardly discuss its 

Spheres of frost and flint, 
TilJ, smitten by thoughts of Spring, 
And the old tree blossoming, 
Their bronze takes a yellower tint. 
And the pulp grows mellower in't. 
But oh! when they're sick Avith the savors 

Of sweets that they dream of, 
Sure, all the toothsomest flavors 

They hold the cream of! 
You will be begging in May, 
In your irresistible way, 
For a peck of the apples in gray. 

Those are the pearmains, I think,— 
Bland and insipid as eggs; 
They were too lazy to drink 

The light to its dregs, 
And left them upon the lind — 



78 BITTER-SWEET. 

A delicate film of blue — 
Leave them alone; — I can find 
Better apples for you. 

Those are the Rhode Island greenings; 
Excellent apples for pies; 
There are no mystical meanings 
In fruit of that color and size, 
^ey are too coarse and too juiceful; 
•JThey are too large and too useful. 

There are the Baldwins and Flyers, 
Wrapped in their beautiful fires! 
Color forks up fi-om their stems 

As if painted by Flora, 
Or as out from the pole stream the flames 
Of the Northern Aurora. 

Here shall our quest have a close; 
Fill up your basket with tliose; 



BITTER-SWEET. 79 



Bite through their vesture ol flame. 

And then you will gather 
All that is meant by the name, 

« Seek-no-farther !" 

DAVID. 

The native orchard's fairest trees, 

Wild springing on the hill, 
Bear no such precious fruits as these. 
And never will; 

Till axe and saw and pruning knife 

Cut fi'om them every bough, 
And they receive a gentler life 

Than crowns them now. 

And Nature's children, evermore, 

Though grown to stately stature, 
Must bear the fruit tJieir fathers bore- 
Thc fruit of iiaLure ; 



80 BJTTEK- SWEET, 

Till e-sery thrifty vice is made 

The shoulder for a cion, 
Cut from the bending trees that shade 
The hiUs of Zion. 

Sorrow must crop each passion-shoot, 

And pain each lust mferual, 
Or human life can bear no fruit 
To life eternal. 

For angels wait on Providence; 

And mark the sundered places, 
To griift Tvith gentlest instruments 
The heavenly graces, 

KUTH. 

Well, you're a curious creature! 
Vou should have been a preacher. 
But look at thai bin of potatoes— 



BITTER-SWEET. 81 



Grown in all singular shapes — 
Reel and in clusters, like grapes. 

Or more like tomatoes. 
Those are Merino es, I guess ; 

Yery prolific and cheap ; 
They make an excellent mess 

Foi- a cow, or a sheep. 
And are good for the table, they say, 
When the winter has passed away. 

Those are my beautiful Carters ; 
Every one doomed to be martyi-s 

To the eccentric desire 
Of Christian people to skin thenij— 

Brought to the trial of fire 
For the good that is in them! 
Ivory tubers — divide one ! 

Ivory all the way tlii-ough I 

leaver a hollow inside one; 

Never a core, black or lA-ie I 
4* 



S2 BITTER-SWEET. 

All, you should taste them when roasted ! 

(Chestnuts are not half so good ;) 
And you would find that I've boasted 

Less than I should. 
They make the meal for Sunday noon ; 

And, if ever you eat one, let me beg 

You to manage it just as you do an egg. 
Take a pat of butter, a silver spoon, 
And wrap yom- napkin round the shell : 
Have you seen a humming-bird probe the bell 
Of a white-lipped morning-glory? 
Well, that's the rest of the story ! 
But it's very singular, surely. 
They should produce so poorly. 
Father knows that I want them, 
So he continues to plant them ; 
But, if I try to argue the question. 

He scoffs, as a thrifty farmer will ; 
And puts me down with the stale suggestion — 

" Small potatoes, and few in a hill." 



B i T T E K - S W E E T . 88 



DAVID. 



Tims is it over all the earth ! 

That which we call the fairest, 
And prize for its surpassing worth. 
Is always rarest. 

Iron is heaped in mountain piles, 
And gluts the laggard forges ; 
But gold-flakes gleam in dim defiles 
And lonely gorges. 

The snowy marble flecks the land 

With heaped and rounded ledges, 
But diamonds hide within the sand 
Their starry edges. 

The finny armies clog the twine 

That sweeps the lazy river, 
But pearls come singly from the brine, 
With the pale diver. 



84 BITTER' SW EET. 

God gives no value unto men 

Unmatched by meed of labor ; 
And Cost of Worth has ever been 
The closest neighbor. 

Wide is the gate and broad the way 

That open to perdition, 
And countless multitudes are they 
Who seek admission. 

But strait the gate, the path unkind, 

That lead to life immortal. 
And few the careful feet that find 
The hidden portal. 

All common good has connnon price ; 

Exceeding good, exceeding ; 
Christ bought the keys of Paradise 
By cruel bleeding; 

And every soul that wins a i.lace 
Upon its hills of pleasure. 



JUTTERSWEET. 86 

Must gi\e Its all, and beg for grace 
To fill the measure. 

Were every liill a precious mine, 
And golden all the mountains ; 
Were all the rivers fed with wine 
By tireless fountains ; 

Life would be ravished of its zest, 

And shorn of its ambition. 
And sink into the dreamless rest 
Of inanition. 

Up the broad stairs that Value rears 
Stand motives beck'ning earthward 
To summon men to nobler spheres, 

-iind lead them worth ward. 

EUTH. 

I'm afraid to show you anything more ; 
For pai'snips and ait are so ver}^ h>ng, 



86 BITTER-SWEET. 

That the passage back to the cellar-door 

Would be through a mile of soug. 
But Truth owns me for an honest teller; 

And, if the honest truth be told, 
1 am mdebted to you and the cellar 

For a lesson and a cold. 
And one or the other cheats my sight; 

(O silly giri I for shame !) 
Barrels are hooped w^th rmgs of light, 

And stopped \vith tongues of flame. 
Apples have conquered original sin, 

Manna is pickled Lq brine, 
Philosophy fills the potato bin. 

And cider will soon be wine. 
So crown the basket wdth mellow fruit, 

And brun the pitcher with pearls; 
And we'll see how the old-time dainties suit 

Tlie old-time boys and gu'ls. 

[They ascend the stairs. 



BBCOKD MOVEMENT 



^'ARRATIYE. 



SECOND MOVEMENT. 

LOCALITY—^ CMmUr. 
PKK8ENT— Gkaok, Maky, and 1M Baby. 



I'HE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY EXPERIENCE, 

GKACE. 

[Sings. 

Ilitlier, Sleep ! A mother wants thee I 

Come with velvet arms! 
Fold the "baby that she grants thee 

To thy own soil charms! 

Bear him into Dreamland lightly! 
Give him sight of flowers ! 



0^ B ITTE Pw- S \V E ET. 

Do not bring him back till brightly 
Break the mornmg hours! 

Close his eyes mth gentle fingers! 

Cross his hands of snow I 
Tell the angels where he lingers 

They must whisper low ! 

I will guard thy spell unbroken 

If thou hear my call ; 
Come then, Sleep! I wait the token 

Of thy downy thrall. 

Now I see his sweet lips moving; 

He is in thy keep; 
Other milk the babe is proving 

At the bi-eabt of sleep ! 

MARY. 

Sleep, babe, the honeyed sleep of innocence I 
Sleep like a bud; fjv soon the sun of life 



BITTER-SWEET. 91 

With ardors quick and passionate shall rise, 

And, with hot kisses, part the fragrant lips — 

The folded petals of thy soul ! Alas ! 

What feverish winds shall tease and toss thee, then 1 

What pride and pain, ambition and despair, 

Desire, satiety, and all that fill 

With misery life's fretful enterprise. 

Shall wrench and blanch thee, till thou fall at last, 

Joy after joy down fluttering to the earth, 

To be apportioned to the elements! 

I marvel, baby, whether it were ill 

That he who planted thee should pluck thee now, 

And save thee from the blight that comes on all, 

I marvel whether it would not be well 

That the frail bud should burst in Paradise, 

On the full throbbing of an angel's heart I 

GEACB 

Oh, speak not thns! The thought is terrible. 
He is my all ; and yot, it sickens me 



92 BITTER-SWEET. 

To tbink that he wiU grow to be a man. 
If he were not a boy ! 

IIARY. 

Were not a boy ? 
That wakens other tlionglits. Thank God for that I 
To be a man, if aught, is privilege 
Precious and peerless. While I bide content 
The modest lot of woman, all my soul 
Gives truest manhood humblest reverence. 
It is a great and god-like thing to do ! 
*Tis a great thing, I think, to be a man. 
Man fells the forests, ploughs and tills the fields, 
And heaps the granai-ies that feed the world. 
At his behest swift Commerce spreads her wings, 
And tires the sinewy sea-birds as she flies, 
Fanning the solitudes from clime to clime. 
Smoke-crested cities rise beneath his hand, 
And roar through ages with the din of trade. 
Steam is the fleet-winged herald of his ^nll, 



BITTER-SWEET. 98 

Joining the angel of the Apocalypse 

Mid sound and smoke and wond'rous civcnm&tance, 

And with one foot npon the conquered sea 

And one upon the subject land, proclahns 

That space shall be no more. The lightnings veil 

Their fiery forms to wait upon his thought, 

And give it wing, as unseen spirits pause 

To bear to God the burden of his prayer. 

God crowns him with the gift of eloquence, 

And puts a harp into his tuneful hands. 

And makes him both his prophet and his priest. 

'Twas in his form the great Immanuel 

Revealed himself; the Apostohc Twelve, 

Like those who since have ministered the Word, 

Were men. 'Tis a great thing to be a man. 

GRACE. 

And fortunate to liave an advocate 
Across whose memory convenient clouds 
Oome floating at convenient intervals. 



94 BITTERS VV^EET. 

The harvest fields that man has honored most 

Are those where human life is reaped like grain. 

There never rose a mart, nor shone a sail, 

N'or sprang a great invention into birth, 

By other motive tlian man's love of gold. 

It is for wrong that he is eloquent ; 

For lust that he indites his sweetest songs. 

Christ was betrayed by treason of a man, 

And scourged and hung upon a tree by men ; 

And the sad women who were at his cross, 

And sought him early at the sepulchre. 

And since that day, in gentle multitudes 

Have loved and followed him, have been "Qaa's 

slaves, — 
The victims of his power and his desire. 

MARY. 

And you, a wedded wife — well wedded, too, 
Can say all this, and say it bitterty! 



BITTER-SWEET. 95 



GKArE. 

Perhaps because a wife ; perhaps becaufje — 

MARY. 

Hush, Grace ! No more ! I beg you, say no more. 

Kay ! I will leave yon at another word ; 

For I could listen to a blasphemy, 

Falling from bestial lips, with lighter chill 

Than to the mad complainings of a soul 

Wliich God has favored as he favors few. 

I dare not listen when a woman's voice. 

Which blessings strive to smother, flings them off 

In mad contempt. I dare not hear the words 

Whose utterance all the gentle loves dissuade 

By kisses which are reasons, while a throng 

Of friendships, comforts, and sv>^eet charitiesh— . 

The almoners of the All-Bountiful — 

With folded wings stand sadly looking on. 

Believe me, Grace, the pioneer of judgment — 



9Q BITTERSWEET^ 

Ordained, commissioned — is Ingratitude ; 

For where it moves, good withers ; blessings die ; 

Till a clean path is left for Providence, 

Who never sows a good the second time 

Till the torn bosom of the graceless soil 

Is ready for the seed. 

GRACE. 

Oh, could you know 
The anguish of my heart, you would not chide \ 
If I repine, it is because my lot 
Is not the blessed thing it seems to you. 
O Mary! Could vou know ! Could you but know I 

MART. 

Then why not tell me all ? You know me, love. 
And know that secrets make their gra\es with me 
So, tell me all ; for I do promise you 
Such sympathy as God through suffering 



BITTER-SWEET 



Has given me power to grant to such as you. 
I bought it dearly, aud its largess waits 
The oj)ening of your heart. 



GRACE. 



I am ashamed, — 
[n truth, I am ashamed — to tell you alL 
You will not lauoli at me ? 



MAKY. 

I laugh at you? 

GRACE. 

Forgive me, Mary, for my heart is weak ; 
Distrustful of itself and all the world. 
Ah, well ! To what strange issues leads our life I 
It seems but yesterday that you were brought 
To this old house, an orphaned little girl, 
Whose lai'ge shy eyes, pale cheeks, and shrijiking 
ways 



98 BITTER-SWEET. 

Filled all onr „earts -with wonder, as we stood 

And stared at you, until your heart o'erfiiled 

Witi. the oppressive strangeness, and you wept. 

Yes, I remember how I pitied you — 

I who had never wept, nor even siglied, 

Save on the bosom of my gentle mother ; 

For my quick heart caught all your history 

When with a hurried step you sought the sun, 

And pressed your eyes against the window-pane 

That God's sweet light might dry them. Well ] kncx^', 

Though all untaught, that you were motherless. 

And I remember how I followed you, — 

Embraced and kissed you — kissed your tears away — 

Tears that came faster, till they bathed the lips 

That would have sealed their flooded fountain-heads ; 

And then we wound our arms around each other, 

And passed out — out under the pleasant sky, 

And stood among the lilies at the door. 

I gave no fonnnl comfort ; you, no thanks ; 



BITTER-SWEET. ^ 

For tears had been your language, kisses mine, 
And we were friends. We talked about our dolls, 
And all the pretty playthings we possessed. 
Then we revealed, with childish vanity, 
Our little stores of knowledge. I was full 
Of a sweet marvel when you pointed out 
The yellow thighs of bees that, half asleep, 
Plundered the secrets of the lily-bells, 
And called the golden pigment honey-comb. 
And your black eyes were opened very wide 
Wlien I related how, one sunny day, 
1 found a well, half-covered, down the lane, 
That was so deep and clear that I could see 
Straight through the world, into another sky I 

MART. 

Do you remember how the Guinea hens 

Set up a scream upon the garden wall. 

That frightened me to running, when you screamed 

With laughter quite as loud ? 



iOO BITTER-SWEET. 

GEACE. 

Aye, very well ; 
But Ixetter still the scene that followed all. 
Oh, tlml has lingered in my memory 
Like that divinest di"eam of Raphael — 
The Dresden virgin prisoned in a print — 
That watched Avith me in sickness tlu-ough long weeks. 
And from its frame upon the chamber-Avall 
Breathed constant benedictions, till I learned 
To love the presence like a Roman samt. 

My mother called us m ; and at her knee, 

Embracing still, we stood, and felt her smile 

Shine on our up-turned faces like the hght 

Of the soft summer moon. And then she stooped ; 

And when she kissed us, I could see the tears 

Brimming her eyes. O sweet experiment ! 

To try if love of Jesus and of me 

Could make our kisses equal to her lips I 

Tlien straight my prescient heart set up a soDg, 



BITTER -SWEET. 101 

And fluttel^3d in my bosom like a bird. 

I knew a blessing was about to fall, 

As robins know the coming of the rain, 

And bruit the joyous secret, ere its steps 

Are heard upon the mountain tops. I knew 

You were to be my sister; and my Iieart 

Was almost bursting with its love and pride. 

I could not wait to hear the kindly words 

Our mother spoke — her 'counsels and commands — 

For you were mine — my sister ! So I tore 

Your cliiigiiig hand fi-om hers with rude constraint, 

And took you to my chamber, where I played 

Witli you, in selfish sense of property, 

The whole bright afternoon. 

And here again, 
Within this same old chamber we are met. 
We told our secrets to each other then ; 
Thus let us tell them now ; and you shall be 
To my grief-burdened soul what you have said, 
So many times that I have been to yours. 



102 BITTER-SWEET. 

MARY. 

Alas I I never meant to tell my tale 
To other ear than God's ; but you have claims 
Upon my confidence, — claims just rehearsed, 
And other claims which you have never known. 

GEACB. 

And other claims which I have never known ! 

You speak in riddles, love. I only know 

You grew to womanhood, were beautiful, 

Were loved and wooed, were married and were blest 

That after passage of mysterious years 

We heard sad stories of your misery. 

And rumors of desertion ; but your pen 

Revealed no secrets of your altered life. 

Enough for me that you are here to-night, 

And have an ear for sorrow, and a heart 

Which dl-appointment has inhabited. 



B T T T E R • S W E E T . 103 

My history you know. A twelvemonth since 

This fearful, festive night, and in this house, 

I gave my hand to one whom I believed 

To he the noblest man God ever made; — 

A man w4io seemed to my infatuate heart 

Heaven's chosen genius, through whose tuneful soiil 

Tlie choicest harmonies of life should flow, 

Growing articulate upon his lips 

In numbers to enchant a willing world. 

I cannot tell you of the pride that filled 

My bosom, as I marked his manly form. 

And read his soul through his effulgent eyes. 

And heard the wondrous music of his voice. 

That swept the chords of feeling in all hearts 

With such divine persuasion as might grow 

Under the transit of an angel's hand. 

And, then, to thhik that I, a farmer's child. 

Should be the woman culled from all the world 

To be that man's companion, — to abide 

The nearest soul to such a soul — to sit 



104 BITTER-SWEET. 

Close by the fountain of his peerless life — 
The welling centre of his loving thouglits — 
And drink, myself, the sweetest and the best, — 
To lay my head apon his breast, and feel 
That of all precious burdens it had borne 
That was most precious — Oh ! my heart was wild 
With the delirium of happiness — 
But, Mary, you are weej^hig ! 

MARY. 

Mark it not. 
Your words wake memories which you may guess, 
And thoughts which you may sometune know — ^not now 

GRACE. 

Well, we were married, as I said; and I 
Was not unthankful utterly, I think ; 
Though, if the awful question had come then. 
And stood before me with a brow severe 
And steady linger, biddiiig me decide 



BITTER-SWEET. 105 

Wliicb of the two I loved the more, the God 

Who gave my husband to me, or his gift, 

1 know I should have groaned, and shut my eyes. 

We passed a honeymoon whose atmosphere, 

Flooded with inspiration, and embraced 

}3y a wide sky set full of starry thoughts, 

And constellated visions of deligl^t, 

Still wraps me in my dreams — itself a dream. 

The full moon waned at last, and in my sky. 

With horn inverted, gave its sign of tears ; 

And then, when wasted to a skeleton. 

It sank into a heavhig sea of tears 

That caught its tumult from my sighing soul. 

My husband, who had spent whole months ^vith me, 

Tib he was wedded to my every thought. 

Left me through dreary hours, — nay, days, — alone I 

k pleaded business — business day and night; 

jeaving me with a formal kiss at morn. 
And meeting me with strange reserve at eve; 



106 BITTER-SWEET. 

And I could mark tlie sea of tenderness 

LTpou whose beach I had sat down for life, 

Hoping to feel for ever, as at first, 

The love-breeze from its billows, and to clasp 

With open arms the silver surf that ran 

To wreck itself uj^on ray bosom, ebb, 

Day after day receding, till the sand 

Grew dry and hot, and the old hulls appeared 

Of hopes sent out upon that faitliless main 

Since woman loved, and he she loved was false. 

Night after night I sat the evening out, 

And heard the clock tick on the mantel-tree 

Till it grew irl^some to mo, and I grudged 

The careless pleasures of the kitchen maids 

Whose distant laughter shocked the lapsing hours, 

MAKY. 

But did youi husband never tell the cause 
Of this neglect ? 



BITTER-SWEET. 107 



GRACE. 



Never an honest word. 
He told me lie was writing; and, at home, 
Sat down with heart absorbed and absent look. 
I was offended, and upbraided him. 
I knew he had a secret, and that from 
The centre of its closely coihng folds 
A cunning serpent's head, with forked tongue, 
Swayed with a double story — one for me. 
And one for whom I knew not — whom he knew. 
His words, which wandered first as carelessly 
As the free footsteps of a boy, were trained 
To the stern paces of a sentinel 
Guarding a prison door, and never tripped I 
With a suggestion. 

I despaired at last 
Of winning what I sought by wiles and prayers ; 
So, through long nights of sleej)lessness I lay, 
Aiid held my ear beside his silent lips—- 



108 BITTER-SWEET, 

An eager cup — ready to catch the gush 

Of the pent waters, if a dream-swung rod 

Should smite his bosom. It was all in vain. 

And tlius months passed away, and all the while 

Another heart was beating under mine. 

May Heaven forgive me ! but I grieved the charms 

The unborn thing was stealing, for I felt 

That in my insufficiency of po\ver 

1 had no charm to lose. 

MARY. 

And did he not, 
In this most tender trial of your heart, 
Turn in relentmg ? — give you sympathy ? 

GRACE. 

No — yes ! Perhaps he pitied me, and that 
Indeed was very pitiful ; for what 
lias love to do with pity ? When a wLfe 
Has sunk so hopelessly in the regard 



BITTEK SWEET. 109 

Of Iiim she loves tliat he cac pity her, — 

Ii;is Slink so low that she may only share 

The tribute which a mute humanity 

Bestows on those wliom Providence has struck 

AVith helpless poveity, or foul disease ; 

She may be pitied, both by earth aiul heaven, 

Because he pities her. A pitied child 

That begs its bread from door to door is blest; 

A wife who begs for love and confidence, 

And gets but alms from pity, is accurst. 

Well, time passed on ; and rumor came at last 
To tell the story of my husband's shame 
And my dishonor. He was seen at night, 
Walking in l->nely streets Avith one Avhose eyes 
Were blacker than the night, — whose little hand 
Was clinging to his arm. Both were absorbed 
In the half- whispered converse of the time; 
And both, as if accustomed to the path, 
Turned down an alley, climbed a tlight of steps 



no BITTER-SWEET. 

Entered a door, and closed it after them — 

A door of adamant 'twixt hope and me. 

I had my secret ; and I kept it, too. 

I knew his haimt, and it was watched for me, 

Till douht and prayers for doubt, — pale flowers 

I nourished with my tears — were crushed 

By the relentless hand of Certainty. 

Oh, Mary! Mary! Those were fearful days. 
My wrongs and all their shameful history 
Were opened to me daily, leaf by leaf, 
Though he had only shown their title-page: 
That page was his ; the rest were in my heart. 
I knew that he had left my home for her's; 
I knew his nightly labor was to feed 
Other than me ; — that he was loaded do\m 
With cares that ^vere the price of sinful love. 

MA.RY. 

Grace, in your heart do you beheve all this? 



BITTER-SWEET. Ill 

I fear — ^I know— yoii do your husband wron^. 
He is not competent for treachery. 
He is too good, too noble, to desert 
The woman whom he only loves too w^eli. 
You love him not! 

GRACE. 

I love him not? Alas! 
1 am more angry mth myself than him 
That, spite his falsehood to his marriage vows, 
And spite my hate, I love the traitor still. 
I love him not? Why am I here to-night- 
Here where my girlhood's withered hopes are stre^vn 
Through every room for him to trample on — 
But in my pride to show him to you all, 
With the dear child that publishes a love 
That blessed me once, e'en if it curse me now ? 
Yow know I do my husband wrong 1 You thmk, 
Because he can talk smoothly, and befool 
A simple ear with pious sophistries, 



112 BITT C il-SVv'EET. 

lie mi!st be e'en the saintly man lie seems. 

We heard Lim talk to-night; it was done well. 

I saw the triumph of his argument, 

And I was proud, thougli full of spite the wliile. 

His stuff was meant for me ; and, with intent, 

For selfish purpose, or in irony, 

He tossed me bitterness, and called it sweet. 

?ily heart rebelled, and now^ you know the cause 

Of my harsh words to him. 

MARY. 

'Tis very sad ! 
Oh very — very sad ! Pray you go on ! 
Who is this woman? 

GRACE. 

I have never learned. 
I only know she stole my husband's heart. 
And made me very wretched. I suppose 
That at the time my little bale was born. 



BITTER-SWEET. 113 

She went away; for David was at Lome 
For many clays. That pain w^as bliss to me — 
I need no argument to teacli me that — 
V/Iiich caused neglect of her, and gave offence. 
Since tiien, he lias not where to go from me; 
And, loving well his child, he stays at home. 

So he lugs round his secret, and I mine. 

I call him, husband ; and he calls me, wife ; 

And I, who once was like an April day, 

That finds quick tears in every cloud, have steeled 

My heart against my fate, and now am calm. 

I will live on; and though these simple folk 

Who call me sister understand me not, 

It matters little. There is one who does; 

And he .shall have no liberty of love 

By any word of mine. 'Tis w^oman's lot, 

And man's most weak and wicked ^vantonness. 

Mine is like other husbands, I suppose ; 

No v/oi'se — no better. 



iU BITTER- SV»^EET. 

MARY. 

Ask you sympathy 
Of such as I? I cannot give it you, 
For YOU have shut me from the privilege. 

GRACE. 

I asked it once ; you gave me unbelief. 

I had no choice but to grow hard again. 

*Tis my misfortune and my misery 

Tliat every hand whose friendly ministry 

My poor heart cra\'es, is held— withheld — by him 

And I must freeze that I may stand alone, 

JfARY. 

And so, because one man is false, or you 
Imagine him to be, all men are false ; 
Do I speak rightly? 

GRACE. 

H'ave it your own way. 
Men fit to love, and fitted to be loved, 



BITTER-SWEET. 115 

Aie prone to falsehood. I will not gainsay 
Tlie common virtue of the common herd. 
I prize it as I do the goodish men 
Who hold the goodish stuff, and knovv'' it not.^ 
These serve to fill an eas}^-going world, 
And that to clothe it with complacency. 

MAKY. 

I had not thought misantliropy like this 
Could lodge with you; so I must e'en confess 
A tale which never passed my lips before. 
Nor sent its flush to any cheek but mine. 
In this, I'll prove my friendship, if I lose 
The friendship which demands the saci-iiice. 

I have come back, a worse than widowed wife ; 
Yet I went out with dream as briglit as yours,— 
Nay, brighter, — for the birds were smging then, 
And apple-blossoms drifted on the ground 
Where snow-flakes fell and flew v\lieu you were" wod. 



116 BITTER-SWEET. 

The skies were soft ; the roses budded full : 

The mepvds and swelling uplands fresh and green ;- 

The very atmosjDhere was full of love. 

It was no girlish carelessness of heart 

That kept my eyes from tears, as I went forta 

From this dear shelter of the orphan child. 

I felt that God was smiling on my lot, 

And made the airs his angels to convey 

To every sense and sensibility 

The message ot his favor. £.very sound 

Was music to me ; every sight was peace ; 

And brcathhig was ihe drinking or perfume, 

T said, content, and full oi gratitude, 

" This is as God would have it ; and he speaks 

These pleasant languages to tell me so." 

But I liad no such honey-moon as yours. 
A i'ew brief days of happiness, and then 
The dream was over. I had married one 
Who was tiie sport of vagrant impulses 



BITTER-SWEET. 117 

We bad not been a fortnight wed, wlien he 

Caiue home to me with brandy in his brain— 

A maudlin fool — for love like mnie to hide 

As if he were an unclean beast. O Grace I 

I cannot paint the horrors of that night. 

My heart, till then serene, and safely kept 

In Trust's strong citadel, quaked all night long, 

As tower and bastion fell before the rush 

Of fierce convictions ; and the tumbling walls 

Boomed with dull throbs of ruin through my brain. 

And there wore palaces that leaned on this — 

Castles of air, in Ions: and glittering lines, 

Which melted into air, and pierced the blue 

Tliat marks the star-strewn vault of heaven ; — all fell, 

Yv^ith a faint crash like that wliich scares the soul 

When dissolution shivers through a dre:iia 

Smitten by nightmare, — fell and faded all 

To utter nothingness; and when tlie morn 

F'lamed up the East, and with its crimson wing'^ 

Brushed out the paling stars that all tlie i light 



lis BITTER-SWEET. 

In silent, slow procession, one by one, 
Had gazed u})on me through the open sash, 
And passed along, it found me desolate. 

The stupid dreamer at my side awoke. 
And with such helpless anguish as they feel 
Who know that they are weak as well as vile, 
I saw, through all his forward promises. 
Excuses, prayers, and pledges that were oaths 
(AVhat he, poor boaster, thought I could not see) 
That he was shorn of w^ill, and that his heart 
Was as defenceless as a little child's ; — 
That underneath his fair good fellowship 
He was debauched, and dead in love with sin ;— 
That love of me had made liim what I loved, — 
That I could only hold him till the wave 
Of some o'erwbelming impulse should sweep in, 
To lift his feet and bear him from my arms. 
^ felt that morn, when he went trembling forth. 
With bloodshot eyes and forehend hot with woe, 



B I T T E R - S AV E E T . 119 

That thenceforth strife would be 'twixt Hell and me— 
The odds against me — for my husband's soul. 

GRACE. 

Poor dove ! Poor Mary ! Have you suffered thus ? 
You had not even pride to keep you up. 
Were he my husband, I had left him then — 
The ingrate 1 

MAEY. 

Not if yon had loved as I ; 
Yet what you know is but a bitter drop 
Of the full cup of gall that I have drained. 
Had he left me unstained, — had I rebelled 
Against the influence by wliich he sought 
To bring me to a compromise with liim, — 
To make my shrinking soul meet his half "wajj — - 
It had been better ; but he had an art, 
When appetite or passion moved in him, 
That clothed his sins with fair apologies, 



120 BITTER-SWEET. 

And smoothed the ^vi-inkles of a haggard guilt 

Witli the good-natured hand of charity. 

Ho kne^ he was a fool, he said, and said again ^ 

But human nature would be what it was, 

And life had never zest enough to bear 

Too much dilution ; those who work like slaves 

Must have their days of frolic and of fun. 

He doubted whether God would punish sin ; 

God v/as, in flict, too good to punish sin ; 

For sin itself was a compounded tluug. 

With weakness for its prime ingredient. 

And thus he fooled a heart that loved him well; 

And it went toward his heart by slow degreea, 

Till Virtue seemed a frigid anchorite, 

And Vice, a jolly fellow — bad enough. 

But not so bad as Christian people think. 

Tliis was the cunning work of months — nay, years 
Arid, meantime, Edward sank from bad to worse. 
But he had conquered. "Wine v/as on Ids board, 



BITTER-SWEET. 121 

Witliout my jjrotest — with a glass for me! 

His boon companions came and went, and made 

My home their rendezvous with my consent. 

The doughty oath that shocked my ears at first, 

The doubtful jest that meant, or might not mean, 

That which sliould set a woman's brow aflame, 

Became at last (oh, shame of womanhood !) 

A thing to frown at with a covert smile ; 

A thing to smile at with a decent frown ; 

A thing to steal a grace from, as I feigned 

The innocence of deaf unconsciousness. 

And I became a jester. I could jest 

In a wild way on sacred things and themes; 

And I have thought that in his better moods 

My husband shrank ^ath horror from the work 

Which he had wrought in me. 

I do not know 
J, during all these downward-tendhig years, 
Ed^vard kept well bis faitb with me. I know 



122 BITTER-SWEET. 

He used to tell mc, in his boastful way, 
llow he had broke the hearts of pretty maids, 
And that if he were single — well-a-day ! 
riie time was past for thinking upon tliat I 
And I had heart to toss the badina<T:e 
Back in his teeth, with pay of kindred coin ; 
And tell him lies to stir his bestial mirth ; 
And make my boast of conquests; and pretend 
That the true heart I had bestowed on him 
Had flown, and left him but an empty hand. 

I had some days of pain and penitence. 
I saw where all must end. I saw, too well, 
Edward was growing idle, — that his form 
Was gathering disgustful corpulence, — 
That he was going down, and dragging me 
To shame and ruin, beggary and death. 
But judgment came, and overshadov/ed us ; 
And one quick bolt shot from the awful cloud 
Severed the tie that bound two wortljless lives. 



BITTER-SWEET 123 

What God bath joined together, God may part • — • 
Grace, have you thought of that ? 

GRACE. 

Tou scare me, Mary ! 
N ay ! Do not turn on me with such a look I 
Its dread suggestion gives my heart a pang 
That stops its painful beating. 

MARY. 

Let it pass ! 
One morn we woke with the first flush of light, 
Our windows jarring with the cannonade 
That ushered in the nation's festal day. 
The village streets were full of men and boys. 
And resonant with rattlmg mimicry 
Of the black-throated monsters on the hill,— 
A crashing, crepitating war of fire, — 
And as we listened to the fitful feud, 
Dull detonations came from far away, 



124: BITTER-SWEET. 

l*uls:ing along the fretted atmosphere, 

To tell that in the ruder villages 

I'he day had noisy greeting, as in ours. 

I know not why it was, but then, and there, 

I felt a sinking sadness, passing tears — 

A dark foreboding I could not dissolve, 

Nor drive away. But when, next morn, I woke 

In the sweet stillness of the Sabbath day, 

And found myself alone, I knew that hearts 

Which once have been God's temple, and in wliich 

Something divine still lingers, feel the throb 

Along the lines that bind them to The Throne 

When judgment issues; and, though dumb and blind, 

Shudder and famt T\dth prophecies of ill. 

How — by what cause — calamity should come, 

1 could not guess ; ttiai it was imminent. 

Seemed just as certain as the morning's dawn. 

We were to have a gala day, indeed. 



BITTER-SWEET. 125 

Tljere were to be processions and parades 

A great oration in a mammoth tent, 

With dinner followmg, and toast and speech 

By all the wordy magnates of the town ; 

A grand balloon ascension afterwards ; 

And, in the evening, fireworks on the hill. 

I knew that drink would flow from morn till night 

In a wild maelstrom, cu'cling slow around 

The village rim, in bright careering waves, 

But growing turbulent, and changed to ink 

Around the village centre, till, at last, 

The whirling, gurgling vortex would engulf 

A maddened multitude in drunkenness. 

And this was in my thought (the while my heart 

Was palpitating with its nameless fear). 

As, wrapped in vaguest dreams, and purposeless, 

I laced my shoe and gazed upon the sky. 

Then strange determination stirred in me ; 

And, turning sharply on my chair, I said, 

** Edward, where'er you go to-day, I go !" 



126 BITTER-SWEET. 

If I Lad smitten him upon the face, 

It had not tingled ^nth a hotter flame. 

lie turned upon me with a look of hate — 

A something worse than anger — and, with oaths, 

Raved like a fiend, and cursed me for a fool. 

But I was firm; he could not shake my will; 

So, through the morning, until afternoon, 

He stayed at home, and drank and drank again, 

Watching the clock, and pacing ap and down. 

Until, at length, he came and sat by me, 

To try his hackneyed tricks of blandishment. 

He had not meant, he said, to give offence; 

But women in a crowd were out of place. 

He wished to see the aeronauts embark, 

And meet some friends; but there would be a tlirong 

Of boys and drunken boors around the car, 

And I should not enjoy it; more than this. 

The rise would be a finer spectacle 

At home than on the ground. I gave assent, 

And he went out. Of course, 1 followed him : 



BITTER-SWEET. 12' 

For I had learned to read liim, and I knew 
Til ere was some precious scheme of sm on foot. 

The crowd was heavy, and his form w^as lost 
Quick as it touched the mass; but I pressed on, 
Wild shouts and laughter punishing my ears, 
Till I could see the bloated, breathing cone, 
As if it were some monster of the sky 
Caught by a net and fastened to the earth — 
A butt for jeers to all the merry mob. 
But I was distant still; and if a man 
In mad impatience tore a passage from 
The crowd that pressed upon him, or a girl, 
Frightened or fainting, was allowed escape, 
I slid like w^ater to the vacant space. 
And thus, by deftly won advances, gained 
The stand I coveted. 

We waited long; 
And as the curious gazers stood and talked 



123 BITIEE-SWEEI. 

A). out the diverse currents of the an-, 
And wondered u^here the daring voyagers 
Would find a landing-place, a young man said. 
In Avords intended for a spicy jest, 
A man and woman living in the town 
Had taken passage overland for hell! 

Then at a distance rose a scattering shout 

That fixed the vision of the multitude, 

Standing on eager tiptoe, and afar 

I saw the crowd give way, and make a path 

For the pale heroes of the crazy hour. 

Hats w^ere tossed wildly as they struggled on. 

And the gap closed behind them, till, at length, 

They stood within the ring. Oh, damning sight! 

The woman was a painted courtezan ; 

Thf man, my uusoana i i was aumo as aeatn. 

My teetn nCr? blenched together like a vice. 

And every heavy heart-throb was a cuix.. 

But there 1 stood, and saw the shame go on. 



BITTER-SWEET. 129 

Tliey took their seats the signal gun was fired; 
riie cords were loosed, and then the billowy bulfe 
Shot toward the zenith ! 

Never bent the shy 
With a more cloudless depth of blue than then ; 
And, as they rose, I saw his foithless arm 
Slide o'er her shoulder, and her dizzy head 
Drop on his breast. Then I became insane. 
I felt that I was struggling with a dream — 
A horrid phantasm I could not shake off. 
The hollow sky was swinging like a bell ; 
The silken monster swinging like its tongue; 
And as it reeled from side to side, the roar 
Of voices round me rang, and rang again, 
Tolling the dreadful knell of my despair. 

\t the last moment I could trace his form, 
i<]d\vard leaned over from his giddy seat, 
And tossed out soniethino- on tlie air. I saw 



130 B I T T E R - S W E E T . 

Tlie little missive fluttering slowly doA\Ti, 

And stretched my hand to catch it, for I knew, 

Or thought I knew, that it would come to me. 

And it did come to me — as if it slid 

Upon the cord that bound my heart to his — 

Strained to its utmost tension — snapped at labt, 

I marked it as it fell. It was a rose. 

I grasped it madly as it struck my hand, 

And buried all its thorns within my palm ; 

But the fierce pain released my prisoned voice, 

And, with a shriek, I staggered, swooned, and fell. 

That night was brushed from life. A passing frienci 

Directed those who bore me rudely off; 

And I was carried to my home, and laid 

Entranced upon my bed. The Sabbath morn 

That followed all this din and devilry 

Swung noiseless wide its doors of yellow light. 

And in the hallowed stillness I awoke. 

My heart was still ; I cou;d not stir a hand. 



BITTER-SWEET 131 

f thought that I v/as dying, or was dead, — 

That I had slipped through smooth unconsciousness 

Into the everhisting silences. 

I could not speak ; but winning strength, at last, 

1 turned my eyes to seek for Edward's face, 

And saw an unpressed pillow. He was gonel 

I was oppressed with awful sense of loss; 

And, as a mother, by a turbid sea 

That has engulfed her fairest child, sits down 

And moans over the waters, and looks out 

With curious despair upon the waves, 

Until she marks a lock of floating hair, 

^nd by its threads of gold draws slowly in, 

^nd clasps and presses to her frenzied breast 

The form it has no power to warm again, 

So I, beside the sea of memory, 

\iay feebly moaning, yearning for a clew 

By which to reach my own extinguished life. 

It came. A burning pain shot through my palm. 



132 BITTER-SWEET.. 

And tliorns awoke what Ihonis had ])ut to sleep 
It all came back to me — tlie roar, tlie rush, 
The upturned faces, the insane hurras, 
The skyward shooting spectacle, the shame — 
And then I swooned again. 

GRACE. 

But was he killed ? 
Did his foolhardy ventnre end m wreck? 
Or did it end in something worse than wreck? 
Surely, he came again! 

MARY. 

To me, no more. 
He had his reasons, and I knew them soon ; 
But, first, the fire enkindled in my brain 
Burnt through long weeks of fever — burnt my frame 
Until it lay upon the sheet as white 
As the pale ashes of a wasted coal. 
TJien, when strength came to me, and I could sit, 



BITTER-SWEET. 133 

«>> 
Braced by tlio double pillows that were mine, 

A kind friend took my liand, and told me ali 

The day that Edwai-d left me was the last 

He could have been my husband; for the next ' 

Disclosed his intamy and my disgrace. 

He was a thief, and had been one, for years, — • 

Defrauding those whose gold he held in trust; 

And he was ruined — ruined utterly. 

The very bed I sat on w^as not his, 

Nor mine, except by tender charity. 

A guilty secret menacing behind, 

A guilty passion burning in his heart, 

And, by his side, a guilty paramour, 

He seized upon this reckless v>'lum, and fled 

From those he knew would curse him ere hf slept. 

My cup was filled with wormwood; and it grew 
J Jitter and still more bitter, day by day, 
Ciianging from shame and liate, to stern revenge. 



l?)4. BITTER- S WE ET. 

r.ife had no more for mo. My home was lost; 
My heart unfitted to return to tliis; 
And. reckless of the future, I went forth — 
A woman stricken, maddened, desperate. 
fl sought the city witli as sure a scent 
As vultures track a carcass through the air. 
I knew him tliere, delivered up to sin, 
And longed to taunt him with his infamy, — 
To haunt his haunts; to sting his perjured soul 
Vv^ith sharp reproaches; and to scare his eyes 
With visions of his work upon my face. 

But God had other means than my revenge 
To hmnble him, and other thought for me. 
I saw him only once ; we did not meet ; 
There was a street between us; yet it seemed 
Wide as the unbridged gulf that yawns between 
'Die rich man and the beggar. 

'Twas at da^vn. 



BITTER-SWEET. 18.^, 

r ha.l arisen fi-om the sleepless Led 

Which my scant means had purchased, and gone forth 

To taste the air, and cool my burning brow. 

I wandered on, not knowing where I went, 

Nor caring whither. There were feAv astir; 

The market wagons lumbered slowly in. 

Piled hign with carcasses of slaughtered lambs, 

Baskets of unhusked corn, and mint, and all 

The fresh, green things that grow m country fields. 

I read the sicrns — the lono- and curious names — 

And Avondered Avho invented them, and if 

Their owners knew how very strange they were. 

A corps of weary firemen met me once, 

Late home from service, with their gaudy car, 

And loud with careless curses. Then I stopped, 

And chatted with a frowsy-headed girl 

Who knelt among her draggled skirts, and scrubbed 

The heel -worn door-steps of a faded house. 

Then, as I left her, and resumed my walk, 

I larned my eyes across the street, and saw 



136 BITTE K -S \V i::£T. 

A siglil wliicli stoj)i)ed my feet, ray breutli, my iaeart 

It was my husband. Oh, how sadly changed ! 

liis bloodshiOt eyes stared from an anxious face; 

His hat was battered, and liis clothes were torn 

And splashed with mud. Ilis poisoned frame 

Had slirunk av/ay, until his garments hung 

In folds abc.it him. Then I knew it all: 

His life had been a measureless debauch 

Since his most shameless flight; and in his eye, 

Eager and strained, and peermg down the stairs 

Tiiat tumbled to the ante-rooms of hell, 

I saw the thirst which only death can quench. 

He did not raise his eyes ; I did not speak ; 

There was no work for me to do on Imu; 

And when, at last, he tottered down the steps 

Of a dark gin-shop, I was satisfied. 

And half relentingly retraced my Avay. 



4 
v/ cannot tell the story of the months 

That followed tlii:^. I toiled and toiled fur bread. 



BITTEK -SWEET. Vdl 

And for the shelter of one stmgy room. 

Temptfition, wliich tlie hand of poverty 

ijcars oft seductiveiy to woman's lips, 

To me came not. I hated men like beasts; 

Their tlatterhig words, and wicked, wanton leers, 

Sickened me with ineffable disgust. 

Al length there came a change. One warm Spring eve^ 

As I sat idly dreamhig of the past, 

And questioning the future, my quick ear 

Caught somid of feet upon the creaking staii's, 

And a light rap delivered at my door. 

I said, "Come in!" with half defiant voice, 

Although I longed to see a human face, 

And needed labor for my idle hands. 

But when the door was opened, and there stood 

A man before me, with an eye as pure 

And brow as fair as any little child's, 

Matched with a form and carriage Avhich combined 

All manly beauty, dignity, and grace, 



I o8 B I T T E R - S ^V E E T . 

A (]nick bliisli overwhelmed my pallid clietks, 
And, ere I knew, and by no act of will, 
( rose and gave liim gentle com*tesy. 

He took a seat, and spoke with pleasant voice 
Of many pleasant tilings — the pleasant sky, 
The stars, the opening foliage in the park ; 
And then ne came to business. He would have 
A piece of exquisite embroidery ; 
My hand was cunning if report were true ; 
Would it oblige him? It would do, I said-. 
That which it could to satisfy his wish ; 
And when he took the delicate pattern out, 
And spread the dainty fabric on his knees, 
I knew he had a wife. 

He went away 
With kind "Good night," and said that, with my Icavej 
!fe\l call and watch the progress cf the work. 
I marked his careful stor^.? adown the stairs, 



BITTER-SWEET, 189 

AikI men, his brisk, firm tread upon the pave, 

Till in the dull roar of the distant streets 

It mingled and Avas lost. Then I was lost, — 

Lost in a wild, wide-rangmg reverie — 

From which I roused not till the midnight hush 

Was broken by the toll from twenty towers. 

This is a man, I said ; a man in truth ; 

My room has known the presence of a man, 

And it has gathered dignity from him. 

I felt my being flooded with new life. 

My heart was warm ; my poor, sore-footed thoughts 

Sprang up full fledged througli ether ; and I felt 

Like the sick woman who had touched the hem 

Of Jesus' garment, when through aU her vems 

Leaped the swift tides of youth. 

He had a wife I 
Why, to a wrecked, forsaken thing like me 
Did that thought bring a pang ? I did not know } 



140 B 1 T T E li - S \V K K T 

Hut. truth to tell, it gave me stinging paiii. 

II he was noble, }ie was naught to me ; 

If he was great, it only made me less ; 

If he loved truly, I v>'as not enriched. 

So, in my selfishness, I almost cursed 

The unknown woman, thought for whom had brought 

Her loving husband to me. What was I 

To him ? Naught but a poor unfortunate, 

Picking her bread up at a needle's point. 

He'll come and criticise my handiwork, 

I said, and when it is at last complete, 

He'll draw his purse and give me so much gold ; 

And then, forgetting me for ever, go 

And gather fragrant kisses for the boon. 

From lips that do not know their privilege. 

I could be nothing but the medium 

Through which his love should pass to reach its slirine 

The glass through ^rhich the sun's electric beams 

Kindles the rose's heart, and still remains 

Chill and serene itself — without reward 1 



B I TT E R - S W E E T . 141 

Tlien came to me the thoiiglit of my great wioug. 

A man had spoiled my heart, degraded me ; 

A v^anton woman had defrauded me ; 

I would get reparation how I could ! 

He must be something to me — I to him ! 

All men, however good, are weak, I thought ; 

And if I can arrest no beam of love ' 

By right of nature or by leave of law, 

I'll stain the glass ! And the last words T said, 

As I lay do^vn u]->on my bed to dream, 

Were those four words of sm : " I'll stain the glasa !" 

GEACE. 

Mary, I cannot hear you more ; your tale, 
So bitter and so passing pitiful 
I liave forgotten tears, and feel my eyes 
Bum dry and hot with looking at your facC;, 
Now gathers blackness, and grows horrible. 



H2 BITTER-SWEET„ 

arARY. 
Nay, you must hear rae out ; I cannot pause ; 
And Lave no worse to say than I have said- 
Thank God, and him who put away my toils ! 

He came, and came again ; and every charm 
God had bestoweTl on me, or art could frame, 
I used with keenest ingenuities 
To fascinate the sensuous element 
O'er which, mistrusted, and but half asleep, 
Ills conscience and propriety stood guard. 
I told with tears the story of my woe ; 
He listened to me w^itli a thoughtful face, 
And sadly sighed ; and thus I won his ruth. 
And then I told him how my life was lost ;— 
How earth had nothing more for me but pain | 
Not e'en a friend. At this, he took my hand. 
And said, out of his nobleness of heart. 
That I should have an honest friend in him ; 
On wliich 1 bowed my head upon his arm, 



BITTER-SWEET. 14:3 

And wept again, as if my heart would break 

With the full pressure of its gratitude. 

He fat me gently off, and read my face : 

I stood before him hopeless, helpless, his ! 

His swift soul gathered what I meant it should. 

He sighed and trembled ; then he crossed the flooTs 

And gazed with eye abstracted on the sky ; 

Then came and looked at me ; then turned, 

As if affrighted at his springing thoughts, 

And, with abruptest movement, left the room. 

This time he took with him the broidered thing 

That I had wrouglit for him ; and when I oped 

The little purse that he rewarded me, 

I found full golden payment five times told. 

Given from pity ? thought I, — that alone V 

Is maniy pity so munificent ? 

'*ity has mixtures that it knows not of I 

It was a cruel triumph, and I speak 



1^4: BITTER-SWEET, 

Of it with utter penitence and shame. 

1 knew that he would come again ; I knew 

His feet w^ould bring him, though his soul rebelled 

I knew that cheated heart of his would toy 

Wic!: the seductive chains that gave it thrall, 

And strive to reconcile its perjury 

With its own conscience of the better way, 

By fabrication of apologies 

It knew were false. 

And he did come again; 
Confessing a strange interest in me, 
And doing for me many kindly deeds. 
I knew the nature of tlie sympathy 
That drew him to my side, better than he ; 
ThouG^h I could see that solenm chancre in him 
^^hich every face will wear, when Heaven and lleD 
Are struggling in the heart ^or masierv. 
He was unhappy ; every sudden sound 
Startled his apprehensions ; from his lieart 



BITTER-SWEEl', 145 

Rose lieavy suspirntions, charged with prayer, 

Desire, and deprecation, and remorse ; — • 

Sighs like volcanic breathings — sighs that scorched 

His parching lips and spread his face with ashes,-— 

Sighs born in such convulsions of the soul 

That his strong frame quaked like Vesuvius, 

Burdened with restless la^va. 

Day by day 
I marked this dalliance with sinful thought, 
Without a throb of pity in my heart. 
I look his gifts, which brought immunity 
From toil and care, as if they were my right. 
Day after day I saw my power increase. 
Until that noble spirit was a slave — 
A craven, helpless, self-suspected slave. 

But this was not to last — thank God and him ! 
One night he came, and there had been a change. 
My band was kindly taken, but not held 



146 BITTER-SWEET. 

In tlie way wonted. He was self-jiossessed ; 

The powers of darkness and his Christian hean 

Had had a struggle — his the victoiy ; 

And on his manly brow the benison 

Of a majestic peace had been imposed. 

Was I to lose the guerdon of ray guile ? 

He was my all, and by the only means 

Left to a helpless, recMeas thing, like me : 

My heart made pledge the strife should be renewed. 

I took no notice of his altered mood, 

But strove, by all the tricks of* tenderness, 

To fan to life again the drooping flame 

Within his heart ; — with what success, at last, 

Tlie sequel shall reveal. 

Strange fire came do^\Ti 
Responsive to my call, and the quick flash 
That shrivelled resolution, vanquished will, 
And with a blood-red flame consumed the crown 
Of peace upon his brow, taught him how weak — 



BITTEK-SWEET. 1-^1 

How miserably imbecile — he had become, 

rampering with temptation. Such a groan, 

Wrung from such agony, as then he breathed, 

Pray Heaven my ears may never hear again i 

He smote his forehead with his rigid palm. 

And sank, as if the blow had stunned him, to his 

knees, 
And there, with face pressed Lard upon his hands, 
Gave utterance to frenzied sobs and prayers — 
The wild articulations of despair. 
I was confounded. He — a man — thought I, 
Blind with remorse by simple look at sin ! 
And I — a woman — in the devil's hands, 
Luring him Helhvard with no blush of shame ! 
The thought came swift from God, and pierced my 

heart, 
Like a barbed arrow ; and it quivered there 
Tlirough whiles of tumult — quivered — and was fast 1 

Tlius, while I stood and marked his kneeling form, 



148 BITTER-SWEET. 

Still shocked by deep convulsions, such a light 

Illumed my soul, and flooded all the room, 

That, without thought, I said, "The Lord is here !'» 

Then straight my sjiirit heard these wondrous words 

'* Tempted in all points like ourselves, was He — 

Tempted, but sinless." Oh, what majesty 

Of meanmg did those precious words convey ! 

'Twas through temptation, thought I, that the Lord- 

The mediator between God and men — 

Reached down the hand of sympathetic love 

To meet the grasp of lost Humanity ; 

And this man, kneeliug, has the Lord in him, 

And comes to mediate 'twixt Christ and me, 

" Tempted but sinless ;" — one hand grasping mine, 

The other Christ's. 

Why had he suffered thi/s? 
Why had his heart been led far down to mine, 
To beat in sinful sympathy with mine. 
But that my b^^rt should cling to his and him, 



BITTER-SWEET. 149 

And follow his withdrawal to the heights 
From whence he had descended ? Then I learned 
Why Christ was tempted ; and, as broad and full, 
The heart of the great secret was revealed, 
And I perceived God's dealings with my soul, 
I knelt beside the tortured man and wept, 
And cried to Heaven for mercy. As I prayed, 
My soul cast off its shameful enterprise ; 
And when it fell, I saw my godless self — 
My own degraded, tainted, guilty heart, 
Which it had hidden from me. Oh, the pang — 
The poignant throe of uttermost despair- 
That followed the discovery ! I felt 
That I was lost beyond the grace of God ; 
And my heart turned with instinct sure and swift 
To the strong struggler, praying at my side. 
And begged his succor and his prayers. I felt 
That he must lead me up to where the hand 
Of Jesus could lay hold on me, or I was doomecL 



150 BITTER-SWEET. 

Temptation's spell was past. He took my hand, 

And, as he prayed that we might be forgiven. 

And pledged our future loyalty to God 

And his white throne within our hearts, I gave 

Responses to each promise ; then I crowned 

His closing utterance with such Amen 

As weak hearts, conscious of their weakness, give 

When, bowed to dust., and clinging to the robes 

Of outraged mercy, they devote themselves 

Once and for ever to the pitying Christ. 

Then we arose and stood upon our feet. 

He gave me no reproaches, but with voice 

Attempered to his altered mood, confessed 

His own blameworthiness, and pressed the prayer 

That I would pardon him, as he believed 

That God had pardoned; but my Iieart was full,- 

So fidl of its sore sense of wrong to him. 

Of the deep guilt of shameful jmrposea 

And treachery to wortliy womanhood, 



BITTEK-S WEET. 151 

That I could not repeat Ms Christian words, 
Asking forbearance cd my own behalf. 

He sat before me for a golden hour; 

And gaA'e me counsel and encouragement, 

Till, like broad gates, the possibilities 

Of a serener and a higher life 

Were thrown wide open to my eager feet, 

And I resolved that I would enter in, 

And, with God's gracious help, go no more out. 

For weeks he watched me with stern cai-efulnesa, 
Nourished my resolution, prayed with me, 
And led me, step by step, to higher ground. 
Till, gathering impulse in the upward walk. 
And strength in purer air, and keener sight 
In the sweet light that dawmed upon my soul, 
I grasped the arm of Jesus, aiid was safe. 
And now, when I look back upon my life, 
It seems as if that nobie man were sent 



152 BITTEK-SWEET. 

To give me rescue from the pit of death. 

But from his distant height he could not reach 

And act ujDon my soul; so Heaven allowed 

Temptation's ladder 'twixt his soul and mine 

That they might meet and yield his mission thrift. 

I doubt not in my grateful soul to-night 

That had he stayed mthin his higher world, 

And tried to call me to him, I had spurned 

Alike his mission and his ministry. 

That he was tempted, was at once my sin 

And my salvation. That he sinned in thought. 

And fiercely wrestled with temptation, won 

For his own spirit that humility 

Which God had sought to clothe him with in vahi, 

By other measures, and that strength which springs 

From a great conflict and a victory. 

Wo talked of this ; and on our bended knees 

We blessed the Great Dispenser for the moan 

By which we both had learned our shiful selves, 

And found the way to a divhier life. 



BITTER-SWEET. 153 

So, with my chastened heart and life, I come 
Back to my home, to live — perhaps to die. 
(lod's love has been in all this discipline; 
God's love has used those awful sins of mine 
To make me good and haj^py. I can mourn 
Over my husband ; I can pray for him, 
Nay, I forgive him; for I know the power 
With wliich temptation comes to stronger men. 
I know the power with which it came to me. 

And now, dear Grace, my story is complete. 
You have received it with dumb wonderment, 
And it has been too long. Tell me what thought 
Stirs in your face, and waits for utterance. 

GEACE. 

That I have suffered little — trusted less; 
That I have failed in charity, and been 
Unjust to all men — specially to one. 
[ did not think there lived a liian on earth 



154 BITTER-SWEET. 

Who had such virtue as this fi'ieiul of yours,— 

Weak, and yet strong. 'Twere but humanity 

To give hhn pity in liis av/ful strife; 

To stint the meed of reverence and praise 

For his triumpliant conquest of liimself, 

Were hifamy. I love and honor liim; 

And if I knew my hushand were as strong, 

I could fall down before, and worship him ; 

I could fall down, and wet his feet with tears — 

Tears penitential for the grievous wrong 

That I have done liim. But alas ! alas ! 

The thouglit ccmes back again. O God in Heaven 

Help me Avith patience to await the hour 

When the great purpose of thy discipline 

Shall be revealed, and, like this chastened one, 

I can behold it, and be satisfied. 

MARY. 

Hark ! They are cnllhig u^ below, I think. 



BITTER-SWEET. 156 

We must go down. We'll talk of this again 
Wlieii we have leisure. Kiss the little one, 
And thank his wearv brain it sleeps so well. 

(They descend. 



SECOND EPISODE. 



LOCVLITY— 77i6 Kitchen. 
PRESENT — .Joseph, Samcel, Kehf.kah, and otiier Coildkes. 



THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY STOKY. 

JOSEPH. 

Elave we not li.id ** Button-Bntton " enough, 
And "Forfeits," and all such silly stuff? 

SAMUEL. 

U'(>l!, we were playing " Blind-Man*s-Buff " 
Until you fellj and rose in a huff, 



168 BITTER-SWEEIc 

And declared the game was too rude and rough. 
Poor boy! What a pity he ii>n't tough 1 

ALL. 

Ha ! ha ! ha ! what a pretty boy I 
Papa's delight, and mamma's joy! 
Wouldn't he like to go to bed, 
And have a cabbage-leaf on his head ? 

JOSErH. 

Laugh, if you like to ! Laugh till yor '« gray j 

But I guess you'd laugh another way 

If you'd hit your toe, and fallen like me, 

And cut a bloody gash in your knee, 

And bumped your nose and bruised your shin, 

Tumbling over the rolling-pin 

That rolled to the floor in the awful din 

Til at followed the fall of the row of tin 

Tliat stood u})on the dresser. 



BITTEU-SWEET. 159 



SAMUEL. 



Guess again— deal Jttle gucsser ! 
You wouldn't catch this boy lopping his wrng, 
Or whining over anything. 
So stir your stumps, 
Forget your bumps, 
Get out of your dumps, 
And up and at it again ; 
For the clock is striking ten, 
And Ruth will come pretty soon and say, 
'* Go to your heds 
You sleepy heads !" 
So— quick I What shall we play ? 



EEBEKAH. 



T wouldn't play any more, 
For Joseph is tired and sore 
With his fall upon the floor 



160 BITTER-SWEfiT 

AM*. 

riien be shall tell a story. 

JOSEPH, 

About old Mother Moray ? 



No I Tell us another 

JOSEPH. 

About my brother ? 

EEBKKAH. 

Now, Joseph, you sliall be good. 

And do as you'd be done b)' ; 

We didn't mean to be rude 

When you fell and began to cry; 

We wanted to make you forget your pain 5 

But it fiets you, and we'll not laugh again. 



BITTER-SWEET, 161 

JOSEPH 

Well, if you'll all sit still, 

And not be frisknig about, 

ISTor utter a wliisper till 

You've heard my story out, 

I'll tell you a tale as weird 

As ever you heard in your lives, 

Of a man with a long blue beard, 

And the way he treated his wives. 

am:.. 

Oh, that will be nice ! 
We'll be still as mice. 

JOSEPH. 

[Relates the old story of Blue Beard, and David and Rdtb iad» 
from the cellar unperceived. 

Centuries since there flourished a man, 
(A cruel old Tartar as rich as tb.e Kliau,) 



162 BITTER-SWEET. 

Wliose castle was built on a splendid plan, 

With gardens and groves and plantations; 
But liis shaggy beard was as blue as the sky, 
And he lived alone, for his neighbors were shy, 
And had heard hard stories, by the by, 
About his doniesti relations. 

Just on the opposite side of the plain 

A widow abode, with her daughters twain, 

And one of them — neither cross nor vain — 

Was a beautiful little treasure ; 
So he sent them an invitation to tea, 
And ha\dng a natural wish to see 
His wonderful castle and gardens, all three 

Said they'd do themselves the pleasure. 

As soon as there happened a pleasact day, 
They dressed themselves in a sumptuous way, 
And rode to the castle as proud an 1 gay 
As silks and jewels co M make llem; 



BITTER-SWEET. 163 

And they v/ere received in the finest style, 
And saw everything that was worth their wnile, 
fr the halls of Blue Beard's grand old pile, 
Where lie was so kind as to take them. 

The ladies were all enchanted quite ; 
For they found old Blue Beard so polite 
That they did not suffer at ail from fright, 

And frequently called thereafter ; 
Then he offered to marry the younger one, 
And as she was willing the thing was done, 
And celebrated by all the ton 

With feasting and with laughter. 

As knid a husband as ever was seen 

Was Blue Beard then, for a month, I ween; 

And she was as proud as any queen, 

Aid as happy as she could be, too ; 
But her husband called her to him one day, 
And said, " My dear, I am going a'.vay ; 



i6-i BITTEE-SWEET. 

It -vvill not be long that I shall stay; 
There is business for me to see to. 

" The keys of my castle I leave with you ; 

But if you value my love, be true, 

And forbear to enter the Chamber of Blue f 

Farewell, Fatbna ! Remember !" 
Fatima promised liim ; then she ran 
To visit the rooms with her sister Ann ; 
But when she had finished the tour, she began 

To think about the Blue Chamber. 

Well, the w^oman was curiously inclined, 
So she left her sister and prudence behind, 
(With a little excuse) and started to find 

The mystery forbidden. 
She i)aused at the door ; — all was still as night I 
She opened it: then throngli the dim, blue light 
There blistered her vision the horrible sight 

That was in that chamber hidden. 



BITTEPwS WEET. 1(51 

The room was gloomy and damp and wide, 
And the floor was red with the bloody tide 
From headless women, laid side by side, 

T?ie wives of her lord and master ! 
^'lightened and fainting, she dropped the key, 
But seized it and lifted it quickly; then she 
Hurried as swiftly as she could flee 

From the scene of the disaster. 

She tried to forget the terrible dead. 

But shrieked when she saw that the key was red. 

And sickened and shook ^viih an a\A'ful dread 

When she heard Blue Beard ^\'as coming. 
He did not appear to notice her pain; 
But he took his keys, and seeing the stain, 
He stopped in the middle of the refrain 

That he had been quietly humming. ^ 

*» Mighty well, madam !" said he, " mighty weW I 
What does this little blood-stain tell ? 



166 BITTER-SWEET. 

Y"oii've broken your promise ; prepare to dwell 
With the wives I've had before you ! 

You've broken your promise, and you shall die." 

Then Fatima, supposing her death was nigh, 

Fell on her knees and began to cry, 
" Have mercy, I implore you !" 

** No !" shouted Blue Beard, drawing his sword ^ 
"You shall die this very minute," he roared. 
" Grant me time to prepare to meet ray Lord,*> 

The terrified woman entreated. 
" Only ten minutes," he roared again ; 
And holding his watch by its great gold chain, 
He marked on the dial the fatal ten, 

And retired till they were completed. 

*' Sister, oh, sister, fly up to the tower ! 
Look for release from this murderer's power ! 
Our brothers should be here this very hour ; — 
Speak ! Does there come assistance !" 



BITTER-SWEET. 167 

"No: I see nothing but sheep on the hill.»» 
" I.ook agam, sister !" *' I'm looking still, 
l>ut naught can I see, whether good or ill, 
Save a flurry of dust in the distance." 

" Time's up !" shouted Blue Beard, out from his room 
" This moment shall v.itness your terrible doom, 
And give you a dwelling within the room 

Whose secrets you have invaded." 
" Comes there no help for my terrible need ?" 
"There are horsemen twain riding hither with speed." 
" Oh ! tell them to ride very fast indeed, 

Or I must meet death unaided." 

" Time's fully up ! Now have done with your prayer," 
Shouts:! Blue Beard, swinging his sword on the stair; 
Then he entered, and grasping her beautiful hair, 

Swung his glittermg weapon around him; 
But a loud knock rang at the castle gate. 
And Fatima was saved from her hori'ible fate. 



168 BITTER-SWEET. 

For, shocked with surprise, he paused too late; 
And then the two soldiers found him. 

They were her brothers, and quick as they knew 
What the fiend was doing, their swords they di-ew, 
And attacked him fiercely, and ran hun through, 

So that soon he was mortally wounded. 
With a wild remorse was his conscience filled 
When he thought of the hapless wives he had killed j 
But quickly the last of his blood was spilled, 

And his dying groan was sounded. 

As soon as Fatima recovered from fright. 

She embraced her brothers with great delight; 

And they were as glad and as grateful quite 

As she was glad and grateful. 
Then they all went out from that scene of pain, 
And sought in quietude to regain 
Hieir minds, which had come to be quite insane, 

Tn 8 ')lace so horrid and hateful. 



BITTER-SWEET. 169 

Twas a private funeral Blue Beard had; 

For the people knew he was very bad, 

And, tliough they said nothmg, they all were glad 

For the fall of the evil-doer ; 
But Fatima first ordered some graves to be made, 
And there the unfortunate ladies were laid, 
And after some painful months, with the aid 

Of her friends, her spirits came to her. 

Then slie cheered the hearts of the suffering poor, 
And an acre of land around each door, 
And a cow and a couple of sheep, or more, 

To her tenantry she granted. 
So all of them had enough to eat, 
And their love for her was so complete 
They would kiss the dust from her little feet. 

Or do anything she wanted. 

('apilall Capital' Wasn't it good! 



170 BITTER-SWEET. 

I slionld l&e to Lavo been lier brother; 

If I had been one, you may guess there would 

liave been little work for the other. 

I'd have run him riglit through the heart, just so 

And cut off his head at a single blow, 

And killed him so quickly he'd never know 

What it was that struck him, wouldn't I, Joe? 

JOSEPH. 

You are very brave with your bragging tongue; 
But if you had been there, you'd have sung 

A very different tune. 
Poor Blue Beard! He would have been afraid 
Of a little boy with a penknife blade. 

Or a tiny pe^vter spoon 1 

SAMUEL. 

It makes no difference wnat you say 
(Pretty Uttle boy, aiiaid to l-'ayl) 



BITTER-SWEET. 171 

But it served him riglitly any wav, 

And gave him just his due. 
And wasn't it good that his httle wife 
Should live in his castle the rest of her life, 

And have all his money too ? 



REBEKAH, 

I'm thinking of the ladies who 
Were lying in the Chamber Blue, 
With aU their small necks cut in two. 

I see them Ipng, half a score, 
In a long row upon the floor, 
Their cold, white bosoms marked with gore. 

I know the sweet Fatima would 
Have put their heads on if she could; 
And made them live — she was so good ; 



172 B I T T E R - S ^V E E I . 

And washed their faces at the sink; 
But Blue Beard was not sane, I thinks 
I wonder if he did not drink! 

For no man in his proper mind 
Would be so cruelly inclined 
Afi to kill ladies who were kind. 

RUTH. 

\_Stepping fonoard with David 
Story and comment alike are bad ; 
These little fellows are raving mad 

With thinking what they should do, 
Supposing their sunny-eyed sister had 
Given her heart — and her head — to a lad 
Like the man with the Beard of Blue. 
Each little jacket 
Is now a packet 
Of murderous thoughts and fancies j 
Oh, the gentle trade 
By which fiends are made 



BITTER-SWEET. 178 

With the ready aid 

Of these bloody old romances ! 
And the little girl takes the woman's turn, 
And thinks that the old curmudgeon 
Wlio owned a castle, and rolled in gold 
Over fields and gardens manifold, 
And kept in his house a family tomb, 
With his bowling course and his billiard-room, 
Where he could preserve his precious dead, 
Who took the kiss of the bridal bed 
From one who straightway took their head, 
And threw it away with the pair of gioves 
In which he wedded his hapless loves, 

Had some excuse for his dudgeon. 

DAVID. 

We learn by contrast to admire 
Tlie beauty that enchains us; 
And know the object of desire 
By that which pains us. 



BITTER-SWEET. 

The roses blushing at the door, 

The laj^se of leafy June, 
The singing bii'ds, the sunny shore, 
The summer moon ; — 

All these entrance the eye or ear 

By mnate grace and charm ; 
But o'er them, reaching through the year 
Hangs Winter's arm. 

To give to memory the sign, 

The index of our bliss, 
And show by contrast how divine 
The Summer is. 

From chilling blasts and stormy skiefi. 

Bare hills and icy streams. 
Touched into fairest life arise 
Our summer dreams. 



BITTER-SWEET. 175 

And virtue never seems so fair 

As when we lift our gaze 
From the red eyes and bloody hair 
That vice displays. 

We are too low, — our eyes too dark 

Love's height to estimate, 
Save as we note the sunken mark 
Of brutal Hate. 

So this ensanguined tale shall move 

Aright each little dreamer, 
And Blue Beard teach them how to lov» 
The sweet Fatima. 

They hate his crimes, and it is well; 

They pity those who died ; 
Their sense of justice v hen he fell 
Was satisiied. 



176 BITTER-SWEET. 

No fierce revenges are the friut 

Of their just indignation ; 
They sit in judgment on the brute, 
And condemnation ; 

And turn to her, his rescued wife, 

Her deeds so kind and human, 
And love the beauty of her life, 
And bless the woman. 

RUTH. 

That is the way I supposed you would twist it; 
And now that the boys are disposed of, 
And the moral so handsomely closed off. 
What do you say of the girl? That she missed it. 
When she thought of old Blue Beard as &>*me do oi 

Judas, 
Wlio with this notion essay to delude us: 
That when he relented, 
And fiercely repented, 



BITTER-SWEET. 177 

He was hardly so bad 
As be commonly had 
The foi-time to be represented? 

DAVID. 

The noblest pity in the earth 

Is that bestowed on sin. 
The Great Salvation had its birth 
That ruth within. 

The girl is nearest God, in fact; 

The boy gives crime its due ; 
She blames the author of the act, 
And pities too. 

Thus, from this strange excess of wrong, 

Her tender heart has caught 
The noblest truth, the sweetest song. 
The Saviour taught. 



178 BITTER-SWEET. 

So, more than measm-ed homily, 

Of sage, or priest, or preacher, 
Is this wild tale of cruelty 

Love's gentle teacher. 

It tells of sin, its deep remorse. 

Its fitting recompense, 
And vindicates the taidy course 
Of Providence. 

These boyish bosoms are on fire 

With chivalric possession, 
And burn with just and manly ire 
Against oppression. 

The glory and the gi-ace of hfe. 

And Love's surpassing sweetness, 

Hise from the monster to the wife 

In high comi)letcncss ; 



BITTEB-SWBET. 179 

And thence look down with mercy's eye 

On sin's accurst abuses, 
And seek to wrest from charity 
Some fair excuses. 

RUTH. 

These greedy mouths are watering 
For the fruit within the basket ; 
And, although they will not ask it, 
Their jack-knives all are burning 
And their eager hands are yearning 

For the peeling and the quartering. 
So let us have done with our talk ; 
For they are too tired to say their prayers. 
And the time is come they should walk 
From *;he story below to the story up stairs 



l\e:iED MOVEMENT. 



Q- 



DHAMATIO, 



THE THIED MOVEMENT 



LOCALITY— The Kitchm. 
PKEBENT-— Da^id, Euth, John, Prtkb, PurDTatoK, and Pathkob. 



THE QUESTION ILLUSTRATED BY THE DENOUEMENT 
JOHN. 

Since the old gentleman retired to bed, 

Things have gone strangely. David, here, and Rmh, 

Have wasted thirty minutes underground 

In explorations. One would think the house 

Covered the entrance of the Mammoth Cave, 

And they had lost themselves. Mary and Grace 



184 BITTER-SWEET. 

Still hold their chamber and their confereu^je, 

And pour into each other's greedy ears 

'j'heir stream of talk, whose low, monotonous hum, 

Would lull to slumber any storm but this. 

The children are play-tired and gone to bed; 

And one may know by looking round the room 

Their place of sport was here. And we, plain folk, 

Who have no gift of speech, especially 

On themes which we and none may understand, 

Have yawned and nodded in the great square room, 

And wondered if the parted family 

Would ever meet again. 

m 

EUTH. 

John, do you see 
Tlie apples and the cider on the hearth? 
If I remember rightly, you discuss 
Such themes as these with noticeable zest 
A.nd pleasant tokens of intelligence; 



BITTER-SWEET. l85 



Rather preferring scanty company 

To the full circle. So, sir, take the lead, 

And help yourself. 

JOHN. 

Aye! That I will, and give 
Your welcome invitation currency. 
In the old-fashioned way. Come! Help yourselves I 

DAVID. 

\LooJcing out from the loindmc 

The ground is thick with sleet, and still it falls ! 
The atmosphere is plunging like the sea 
Against the woods, and pouring on the night 
The roar of breakers, while the blinding spray 
O'erleaps the barrier, and comes drifting on 
In lines as level as the window-bars. 
What curious visions, in a night like this, 
Will the eye conjure from the rocks and trees, 
And zigzag fences! I was almost sure 



186 BITTER SWEET. 

I saw a man staggering along the road 

A moment since ; but instantly the shape 

Dropped from my sight. Hark! Was not that a call- 

k human voice ? There's a conspiracy 

Between my eyes and ears to play me tricks, 

Else wanders there abroad some hapless soul 

Who needs assistance. There he stands again, 

And with unsteady essay strives to breast 

The tempest. Hush ! Did you not hear that cry ? 

Quick, brothers! We riust out, and give our aid. 

None but a dying and despairing man 

Ever gave utterance to a cry like that. 

Kay, wait for nothing. Follow me 1 



BUTH. 

Alas I 
Wlio can he be, who on a night like this, 
And on tnis night, of all nights in the year, 
Holds to the highway, ^omoless ? 



BITTER-SWEET. IB7 

PEUDENCE. 

Probably 
Some neigbbor started from bis borne in quest 
Of a pbysician ; or, more likely still, 
Some poor inebriate, sadly overcome 
By bis sad keeping of the boUday. 
I bope they'll give bim quarters in tbe barn; 
If he sleep here, there'll be no sleep for me. 

PATIENCE. 

I'll not believe it was a man at all; 
David and Ruth are always seeing things 
That no one else sees. 

RUTH. 

I see plainly now 
What we shall all see plainly, soon enough. 
Tiie man is dead, and tbey are bearing bim 
As if he were a, log. Quick! Stir tbe tire, 



188 BITTER-SWEET. 

And clear the settle! We must lay him there. 

I will bring cordials, and flannel stuffs 

With which to chafe him ; open wide the door. 

[The men enter, bearing a body apparently lifeless, which they la^ 
upon the settle, 

DAVID. 

Now do my bidding, orderly and swiit; 

And we may save from death a fellow man. 

Peter, relieve him of those frozen shoes, 

And wrap his feet in flannel. This way, Ruth! 

Administer that cordial yourself. 

John, you are strong, and that rough hand of yours 

Will chafe him well. Work with a will, I sayl 
******* 

My hand is on his heart, and I can feel 

Both warmth and motion. If we persevere, 

Ele will bo saved. Work with a will, I sayl 

iN 4: * ♦ 4« ♦ * 

A groan? Ha! That is good. Another groan? 
Better and better 1 



BITTER-SWEET. 189 



EUTH. 



It is down at last! — 
A spoonful of the cordial. His breath 
Comes feebly, but is warm upon my hand. 

DAVID. 

Give him brisk treatment, and persistent, tooi 
And we shall be rewarded presently, 
For there is life in him. 

H: 4: ♦ H( ♦ * « 

He moves his lips 

And tries to speak. 

******* 

And now he opes his eyes. 

What eyes ! How wandering and wild they are ! 

[7b the stranger 

We are your friends. We found you overcome 

By the cold storm without, and brought you in. 

We are your friends, I say; so be at ease, 



190 BITTER-SWEET. 

And let us do according to your need, 
Wliat is your wish? 

STRANGER. 

My friends ? O God in Heaven ! 
Tliey've cheated me! I'm in the hospital. 
Oh, it was cruel to deceive me thus! 
No, you are not my friends. What bitter pain 
Racks my poor body! 

DAVID. 

Poor man, how he raves I 
Let us be silent while the warmth and wine 
Provoke his sluggish blood to steady flow, 
And each dead sense comes back to hfe agam. 
O'er the same path of torture which it trod 
When it went out from him. He'll slumber so >tt. 
And, when he wakens, we may talk with him. 



BITTER-SWEET 191 

PEUDENCE 

[Sotto voce. 
Shall 1 not call the family? I think 
Mary and Grace must both be very cold; 
And they know nothing of this strange affair. 
I'll wait them at the landing, and secure 
Their silent entrance. 

DAVXD, 

If it please you — well. 
[Prudence retires, and returns iviih Grack and Mart 

MART. 

Why ! We heard nothmg of it — Grace and I : — 
What a cadaverous hand ! How blue and thin I 

DAVID. 

At his first wUd awaking he bemoaned 
His fancied durance in a hospital ; 



192 BITTER-SWEET. 

And since he spoke so strangely, I have thought 
lie may have fled a mad-house. Matters not I 
We've done our duty, and preserved his life. 

MARY. 

Hhall I disturb him if I look at him ? 
I'm strangely curious to see his face. 

DAVID. 

Go. Move you carefully, and bring us word 
Whether he sleeps. 

[Maey rises, goes to the settle, and sinks hack fainting t 

Why ! What ails the gii'l ? 
I thought her nerves were iron. Dash her brow 
And oathe her temples ! 

MARY. 

There — there, — that will da. 
*Tl8 over now. 



BITTER-SWEET. 193 

DAVID. 

The man is speaking. Hush I 

STRANGER. 

Oh, what a heavenly dream ! But it is past, 

Like all my heavenly dreams, for never more 
Shall dream entrance me. Death has never dreams, 
But everlasting wakefulness. The eye 
Of the quick spirit that has dropped the flesh 
May close no more in slumber. 

« « >i« >i: « * « 

I must die ! 
This painless spell which binds my weary limbs— 
This peace ineffable of soul and sense — 
Is dissolution's herald, and gives note 
That life is conquered and the struggle o'er. 
But I had hoped to see her ere I died ; 
»To kneel for pardon, and implore one kiss, 
Pledge to ray soul that in the coming heaven 
We should not meet as strangers, but rejoin 



194 BITTER-SWEET. 

Our liearts and lives so madly sundered here, 
Through fault and freak of mine. But it is well 
God's will be done ! 

He ****** 

I dreamed that I had reached 
The old red farm-house, — that I saw the light 
Flaming as brightly as in other times 
It flushed the kitchen windows ; and that forms 
Were sliding to and fro in joyous life, 
Rt;jstless to give me welcome. Then I dreamed 
Of the dear woman who went out with me 
One sweet spring morning, in her own sweet spring, 

To wretchedness and ruin. Oh, forgive — 

Dear, pitying Christ, forgive this cruel wrong, 
And let me die ! Oh, let me — let me die I 
Mary ! my Mary ! Could you only know 
How I have suffered since I fled from you, — 
How I have sorrow^ed through long months of pain, 
And prayed for pardon, — you would pardon me. 



BITTER-SWEET. 195 



DAVID. 

[Sotto voce. 



Mary, what means this ? Does he dream alone. 
Or are we dreaming ? 



MARY. 



Edward, I am here . 
1 am your Mary ! Know you not my face ? 
My husband, speak to me ! Oh, speak once more I 
This is no dream, but kind reality. 

EDWARD. 

[Baising himself, and looking wildly aramdL 

You, Mary ? Is this heaven, and am I dead ? 
I did not know you died : when did you die ? 
And John and Peter, Grace and little Ruth 
Grown to a woman ; are they all with you ? 
»Tis very strange ! O pity me, my friends I 
For God has pitied me, and pardoned, too : 



196 - BITTER- SWEET. 

Else I should not be here. Nay, you seem cold. 

And look on me with sad severity. 

Have you no pardoning word — no smile for me ? 

MART. 

This is not Heaven's but Earth's reality; 

This is the farm-house — these your wife and friends. 

I hold yom- hand, and I forgive you all. 

Pray you recline ! You are not strong enough 

To bear this yet. 

EDWARD. 

[Sinking back. 

toiling heart ! O sick and sinking heart 1 

Give me one hour of service, ere I die I 

This is no dream. This hand is precious flesh, 

And I am here where I have prayed to be. 

My God, I thank thee ! Thou hast heard my prayer, 

And, in its answer, given me a pledge 

Of the acceptance of my penitence. 



BITTER-SWEET. 19' 

How have I yearned for this one priceless hoiirl 
Cling to me, clearest, while my feet go down 
Into the silent stream; nor loose your hold, 
Till angels grasp me on the other side. 

MAKT. 

Kdward, you are not dying — must not die; 
For only now are we prepared to live. 
You must have quiet, and a night of rest. 
Be silent, if you love me ! 

EDWARD. 

If I love? 
Ah, Mary! never till this blessed hour, 
When power and passion, lust and pride are gone, 
Ilave I perceived what wedded love may be; — • 
vlnutterable fondness, soul for soul; 
Profoundest tenderness between two hearts 
Allied by nature, interlocked by life. 



198 BITTER-SWEET. 

I know that I shall die ; but the low clouds 
That closed my mental vision have retired, 
And left a sky as clear and calm as Heaven. 
1 must talk now, or never more on earth; 
So do not hinder me. 

MART. 

Have you a wish 
That I can gratify? Have you any worda 
To send to other friends? 

EDWAKD. 

I have no friendfl 
But you and these, and only wish to leave 
My worthless name and memory redeemed 
Within your hearts to pitying respect. 
I liave no strength, and it becomes me not, 
To tell the story of my life of sin. 
1 was a drunkard, thief, adulterer; 



[ Weepmq 



BITTER-SWEET. 199 

And lied from sliame, with shame, to find remors^ . 

I liud but few months of debauchery, 

iNirsued with mad intent to damp or drown 

The flames of a consuming conscience, when 

My body, poisoned, crippled with disease. 

Refused the guilty service of my soul. 

And at mid-day fell prone upon the street. 

Thence I was carried to a hospital. 

And there I woke to that delirium 

Which none but drunkards this side of the pit 

May even dream of. 

But at last there came, 
With abstinence and kindly medicines, 
Release from pain and peaceful sanity; 
And then Christ found me, ready for His hand. 
I was not ready for Him when He came 
And asked me for my youth; and when He knocked 
At my heart's door in manhood's early prime 
With tenderest monitions, I debarred 



200 B I T T E R - S W E fi T . 

His wailing feet with promise and excuse; 

And when, in after years, absorbed in sin. 

The gentle summons swelled to thundeiings 

That echoed through the chambers of my soul 

With threats of vengeance, I shut up my ears ; 

And then He went away, and let me rush 

"w ithout arrest, or protest, toward the pit. 

i made swift passage downward, till, at length, 

I had be^jome a miserable wreck — 

Pleasure behind me; only pain before; 

My life lived out ; the fires of passion dead ; 

Without a fi'iend ; no pride, no power, no hope ; 

No motive in me e'en to wish for life. 

Then, as I said, Christ came, with stern and sad 

Reminders of Hia mercy and my guilt, 

And the door fell before Him. 

I went out, 
And trod the wildernesses of remorse 
For many days. Then from their outer verge, 



BITTER-SWEET. 201 

Tortured and blinded, I plunged madiy down 

Into the sullen bosom of des[>air; 

But strength from Heaven was given me, and pr(^ 

served 
Breath in my bosom, till a light stream. 'd up 
Upon the other shore, and I struck out 
On the cold waters, struggling for my life. 
Fainting I reached the beach, and on my knees 
Climbed up the thorny hill of penitence, 
Till I could see, upon its distant brow, 
The Saviour beck'ning. Then I ran — I flew"-— 
And grasped his outstretched hand. It lifted me 
High on the eve^-lasting rock, and then 
it folded me, with ail my griefs and tears, 
My RiT>iJck body and my guilt-stained soul, 
To the great Leart that throbs for all the world. 



MAEY. 



Dear Lord, I bless thee ! Tiiou liast heard my prayer, 



2 »2 BITTER-SWEET. 

J ad saved the wanderer! Hear it once again, 
fld lengthen out the life tliou hast redeemed! 

EDWABD. 

Mary, ray wife, forbear! I may not give 

Response to such petition. I have prayed 

That I may die. When first the love Divine 

Received me on its bosom, and in mine 

I felt the springing of another life, 

I begged the Lord to grant me two requests 

The first that I might die, and in that world 

Where passion sleeps, and only influence 

From Him and those who cluster at His thro::^<^ 

Breathes on the soul, the germ of His great Iir<fe, 

Bursting within me, might be perfected. 

The second, that your life, my love, and mine 

Might be once more united on the earth 

In holy marriage, and that mine might be 

Breathed out at last within your lovir.g ai-ma. 



BITTER-SWEET. 203 

One prayer is granted, and the other waits 
But a brief space for its accomplishment. 

MARY. 

Bnt why this prayer to die? Still lo-vdng me,— 
With the great motive for desiring life 
And the deep secret of enjoyment won, — 
Why pray for death? 

EDWARD. 

Do you not know me, Mary? 
I am afraid to live, for I am weak. 
I've found a treasure only life can steal ; 
I've won a jewel only death will keep. 
In such a heart as mine, the priceless pearl 
Would not be safe. That which I would not take 
When health was with me, — which I spurned away 
So long as I had power to sin, I fear 
Would be surrendered with that power's return 
And the temptation to its exercise. 
Por soul like mine, diseased in every part, 



204 BITTER-SWEET. 

There is but oue condition in which grace 
May give it service, bor my malady 
The Great Physician draw.'s the blood away 
That only flows to feed its baleful tires; 
For only thus the balsam and the balm 
May touch the springs of heaUng. 

So I pray 
To be delivered from myself, — to be 
Delivered from necessity of ill, — 
To be secured fiom bringing harm to you. 
Oh, what a boon is death to tlie sick soul! 
I greet it with a joy that passes speech. 
Were the whole world to come before me now,— 
Wealth with it? treasures; Pleasure witli its cup; 
Power robed in pnrj^le; Beauty in its })rldo. 
And with Love'"^ sweetest blossoms gaihinded ; 
Fame with its bnys, and Giory willi its crown,— 
To tempt me li^'-^ward, I would turn away, 
And stretch my ''.'aiids witli utter eai;t'rness 



BITTER-SWEET. 206 

Toward the pale angel waiting for me now, 
And give mv hand to him, to be led out, 
.S(ii-ene]y singing, to tae land of shade. 

MAEY. 

Edward, 1 yield you. I would not retain 
One who nas strayed so long fiom God and heaven, 
When his weak feet have found the only path 
Open for such as he. 

EDWARD. 

My strength recedes; 
But ere it foil, tell me how fares your life. 
You have seen sorrow ; but it comforts me 
To hear the language of a chastened soul 
From one perverted by my guilty hand. 
You spea'K the dialect of the redeemed— 
The Heaven-accepted. Tell me it is so, 
And you are happy. 



206 BITTER-SWEET. 

MARY. 

With sweet hope and trust 
J may reply, 'tis as you think and wish. 
1 liave seen sorrow, surely, and the more 
That I have seen ^\hat was far worse; but God 
Sent his own servant to me to restore 
My sadly straying feet to the sure path ; 
And in my soul I have the pledge of grace 
Which shall sullice to keep them there. 

EDWARD. 

Ah, joy ! 
You found a friend; and my o'erllowing heart. 
Welling with gratitude, pours out to him 
For his kind ministry its fitting meed. 
Oh, breathe his name to me, that my poor lips 
May bind it to a benison, and that. 
While dying, I may whisper it Avith those — • 
Jesus and Mary — which I love the l)est. 
Name him, I pray you. 



B I T T K R - S W E E T . 20"] 

MART. 

You would ask of me 
To bear your thanks to liim, and to rehearse 
Your dying words? 

GKACE. 

He asks your good friend's name 
You do not understand him. 

ItARY. 

It is hard 
To give denial to a dying wish ; 
But, Edward, I've no right to speak his name. 
He was a Christian man, and you may give 
Of the full largess of your gratitude 
All, without robbing God, you have to givCj 
And fail, e'en then, of worthy recompense, 

EDWAED. 

Four will is mine. 



208 BITTER-SWEET. 

GKACE. 

Nay, Mary, tell it him ! 
Where is he gomg he should bruit the name? 
Uemembjr where he lies, and that no eais 
Save those of angels — — 

MARY. 

There are others hero 
Who may not hear it. 

RUTH. 

We will all retire. 
It IS not proper w^e should Unger here, 
Barrmg tlie sacred confidence of hearts 
Parting so sadly. 

DAVID. 

Mary, you must yield, 
Nor keep the secret longer from your friend* 

MARY, 

David, you know not vv^hat you say. 



BITTER-SWEET. 20^ 



DAVID. 



I know ; 
So give the dying man no more delay. 



MARY 



I will declare it under your command. 

This stranger friend — stranger for many months— 

This man, selectest instrument of Heaven, 

Who gave me succor in my hour of need, 

Snatched me from ruin, rescued me from want. 

Counselled and cheered me, prayed with me, and then 

Led me with careful hand into the hght. 

Was he now bending over you in tears — 

David, my brother 1 



EDWARD. 



Blessed be his nainei 
Brother Dy every law, above — below i 



210 BITTER-SWEET. 

GRACE. 

[Pale and trembling, 
David ? My husband ? Did I hear ariglit ? 
You are not jesting ! Sure you would not jest 
At such a juncture ! Speak, my husband, speak ! 
Is this a plot to cheat a dying man, 
Or cheat a wife who, if it be no plot. 
Is worthy death ? What can you mean by this ? 

MAKY. 

Not more nor less than my true words convey 

GKACK. 

Nay, David, tell me I 

DAVID. 

Mary's words are truth, 

GRACE. 

O mean and jealous heart whnt hast thou done I 
Wliat wrong to honor, 'OjiiKi to Clii-isiiaii love. 



BITTER-SWEET. 211 

And shame to self beyond self-pardoning I 

![o\v can I evar lift my faithless eyes 

To those true eyes that I have counted false; 

Or meet those hps that I have chai-ged vv^ith lies; 

Or win the dear embraces I have spurned? 

most unhappy, most unworthy wife ! 

Ko one but he who still has clung to thee, — 
Proud, and imperious, and hnjjenitent,— 
No one but he who has in silence borne 
Thy peevish criminations and complaints 
Can now forgive thee, when in deepest shame 
Thou bowest with confession of thy faults. 
Dear husband ! Da\id ! Look upon your wife I 
Behold one kneeling never knelt to you ! 

1 have abused you and your faithful love, 
And, in my great humiliation, pray 

Y"ou will not trample me beneath your feet, 
"^ity my weakness, and remember, too, 
That Love was jealous of thee, and not ITate — 
I'hat it was Love's own pride tormented me. 



212 BITTER-SWEET, 

My husband take me once more to your arms, 

And kiss me in forgiveness ; ' say that you 

Will be my counsellor, my friend, my love ; 

Aiid I will give myself to you again, 

To be all yours — my reason, confidence, 

My faith and trust all yours, my hearths best lova. 

My service and my prayers, all yours — all youi'sl 

DAVID. 

Rise, dearest, rise ! It gives me only pain 

That such as you should kneel to such as I. 

Your words hiform me that you know how wak 

I am w^hom you have only fancied weak. 

Forgive you ? I forgive you everything ; 

And take the pardon which your prayer insures. 

Let this embrace, this kiss, be evidence 

Oar jarring hearts catch common rhythm again, 

And we are lovers. 



BITTER-SWEET. 213 

RUTH. 

Hush ! You trouble bim, 
lie understands tbis scene no more tban we. 
Mary, be speaks to you. 

EDWARD. 

Dear wife, farewell ! 
The room grows dim, and silently and soft 
The veil is di'opping 'twixt my eyes and yours, 
\VTiicb soon will bide me from you — you from me. 
Only one band is warm ; it rests in yours, 
Whose fiill, sweet pulses throb along my arm, 
So that I live upon them. Cling to me 1 
And thus your life, after my life is past, 
Shall lay me gently in the arms of Death. 
Thus shall you link your beuig with a soul 
Gazmg unveiled upon the Great White Throne. 

Deal hearts of love surrounding me, farewell I 

I cannot gee you now ; or, if I do, 

10 



2H BITTER-SWEET. 

You are trail sfigiired. There are floating forms 

That whisper over me like summer leaves ; 

And now there comes, and spreads through all njy son! 

Delicious influx of another hfe, 

From out whose essence spring, like hving flowers, 

Angelic senses with quick ultimates, 

That catch the rustle of etherial robes, 

And the thin chime of melting minstrelsy — 

Rising and falling — answered far away — 

As Echo, dreaming in the twilight woods, 

Repeats the warble of her twilight birds. 

And flowers that mock the Iris toss their cups 

In the impulsive ether, and spill out 

Sweet tides of perfume, fragrant deluges, 

Flooding my spirit like an angel's breath. 

« 4: ^ 4: He « « 

And still the throng increases ; still unfold 
\7ith broader span and more elusive sweep 
The radiant vistas of a world divine. 
But O my soul ! what vision rises now I 



BITTER-SWEET. 215 

Far, far away, white blazing like the sim, 

In deepest distance and on liighest height, 

Through w^alls diaphanous, and atmosphere 

Flecked with unnumbered foims of missive power, 

Out-going fleetly and returning slow, 

A presence shmes I may not jienetrate ; 

But on a throne, with smile hieflable, 

I see a form my conscious sj^irit knows. 

Jesus, my Saviour! Jesus, Lamb of God! 

Jesus who taketh from me all my sins, 

And from the world! Jesus, I come to thee! 

Come thou to me ! O come. Lord, quickly ! Come I 

DAVID. 

Flo^wn on the wings of rapture ! Is this death ? 
His heart is still; his beaded brow is cold; 
Hi? wasted breast struggles for breath no more; 
And iiis pale features, hardened v/ith the stress 
or Lil'e^s resistance, momently subside 
Into a smile, calm as a twiliglit lake, 



216 BITTER-SWEET. 

Sprent with the images of rising stars. 

We have seen Evil iii his countless forms 

In these poor lives ; have met his armed hosts 

lu dread encounter and discomfiture; 

And languished in captivity to them, 

Until we lost our courage and our faith ; 

And here we see their Chieftain — Terror's Kmgl 

He cuts the knot that bhids a weary soul 

To faithless passions, sateless appetites, 

And powers perverted, and it Hies away 

Singing toward Heaven. He turns and looks at us, 

And finds us weeping with our gratitude — 

Full of sweet sorrow, — sorrow sweeter far 

Than the supremest ecstasy of joy. 

And this is death I Think you that raptured soul 
Now walking humbly in the golden streets, 
Bearing the precious burden of a love 
Too great for utterance, or >vilh hushed heart 
Drinking the music of the r:m^so:ned throng, 



BITTER-SWEET. 217 

Counts death an evil ? — evil, sickness, pain, 

Calamity, or aught that God prescribed 

To cure it of its sin, or bring it v/here 

The healing hand of Christ might touch it ? No t 

He is a man to-night — a man in Jhrist. 

This was his childhood, here ; and as we give 

A smile of wonder to the little woes 

That drew the tears from out our own young eyea- 

The kind corrections and severe coDstraints 

Imposed by those who loved us — so ne sees 

A father's chastisement in all the ill 

That filled his life with darkness; so he sees 

In every evil a kind instrument 

To chasten, elevate, correct, subdue, 

And fit him for that heavenly estate^ — 

Saintship in Christ—the Manhood Absolute? 



L'ENYOY. 



Midnight and silence I In the West, unveiled, 
The broad, full moon is shining, Tvdth the starg^ 
On mount and valley, forest, roof, and rock, 
On billowy hills smooth-stretcliing to the sky, 
On rail and wall, on all things far and near, 
Cling the bright crystals, — all the earth a floor 
Of polished silver, pranked with bending forms 
ITpliiling to the light their precious weight 
Of pearls and diamonds, set in palest gold. 
The storm is dead ; and when it rolled away 
It bOok no star from heaven, but left to earth 
Such legacy of beauty as The Wind — 
Tlie light-robed shepherdess from Cuban groves— 
Driving soft showers before her, and warm airs, 
And her wide-scatt> />' riockts of wet-winijed hirdfi. 



BITTER-SWEET, 21U 

Never bestowed upon the waiting Spring. 

Pale, silent, smiling, cold, and beautiful > 

Do storms die thus? And is it this to die? 

Midnight and silence I In that hallowed room 
God's full-orbed peace is shining, with the stars. 
On head and hand, on brow, and lip, and ■:!ye, 
On folded arms, on broad un moving breast, 
On the white-sanded floor, on everything. 
Rests the pale radiance, while bending forms 
Stand all around,, loaded with precious weight 
Of jfwela such as holy angels wear. 
The man is dead; and when he passed away 
He blotted out no good, but left behind 
Such wealth of faith, such store of love and trust, 
As breath of joy, in-floating from the isles 
Smiled on by ceaseless summer, and indued 
With foliage and floAvers perennial, 
Never conveyed to the enchanted soul. 
Do men die thus? And is it this to die? 



220 BITTERSWEET, 

Midnight and silence ! At each waiting bed, 
Husband and wife, embracing, kneel in prayer, 
And lips nnused to such a benison 
Breathe blessings upon evil, and give thanks 
For knowledge of its sacred ministry. 
An infant nestles on a mother's bieast, 
Whose head is pillowed where it has not lain 
For months of wasted life — the tale all told, 
And confidence and love for-aye secure 

The widow and the virgin: where are they? 

The morn shall find them watching with the dead. 

Like the two angels at the tomb of Christ, — 

One at the head, the other at the foot, — 

Guardmg a sepulchre whose occupant 

lias risen, and rolled the heavy stone away! 

THE WSIX 



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